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THE 



DRAMATIC WORKS 



SIR THOMAS NOON TALEOTTRD, D.C.L. 



ELEVENTH EDITION 



TO WHICH ARE ADDED, 



A FEW SONNETS AND VERSES. 



LONDON: 
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 

1852. 






LONDON: 

SURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRI.A 



PEEFACE TO THE PEESENT EDITION. 

The Dramas which constitute the principal part 
of this volume have, for some years, been published 
only in the form which, although by its cheapness in- 
creasing the chance of extended circulation, presents 
a painful office to eyes worn by study or time. The 
success of the work in this small size has been such 
as to preclude any regret for the adoption of a shape 
to which many poems of higher value have been 
submitted ; but a demand for an impression in larger 
type has been so frequently made, that the author 
feels justified in making the trial, whether, in a form 
more like that in which the plays first received a share 
of the public favour, they may retain it for a short time 
longer. He has taken the opportunity afforded by 
this edition, to subject them to a revision as severe as 
he has a right to apply to works which have been so 
long before the world and have received so much of 
its indulgence. If he had felt at liberty to deal 



viii PKEFACE. 

with them according to the free dictates of his 
maturest judgment, he would not have confined his 
revision to the reform of phrases, and the excision 
of some of the feeblest and most obviously super- 
fluous lines ; but he has thought it due to previous 
purchasers to leave them, with their manifold im- 
perfections, substantially as they were first published. 
The principal alteration he has made in the text, 
consists in the transposition of the original catas- 
trophe of the " Athenian Captive," from the notes, 
where it is printed in the small edition, to its 
proper place, to which he thinks it better adapted 
than that which, for the purposes of the stage, 
was substituted for it. The danger of splitting the 
last act into several scenes, when the representation 
of the play was contemplated, induced the judicious 
advice under which the change was made, and which 
the author gladly embraced ; but still thinking, for 
the purpose of perusal, his first scheme the most 
consonant with the general feeling of the piece, he 
has thus resumed it. 

In preparing these dramas for such little further 
duration as may await them, the author has removed 
the notices applicable to the temporary purposes of 
their scenic representation, which have long since lost 
any interest they ever possessed ; but he has taken 
leave to retain such portions of the original preface 
to "Ion" as relate to the history of its composition 



PREFACE, ix 

and its production on the stage, in justice to powers 
which rendered it vital, and also the passages which, 
supplying the place of its dedication, comprise a 
feeble tribute to the memory of his old master, 
Dr. Yalpy, to whom, when printed for private 
circulation, the drama was inscribed. These he has 
brought together in the appendix ; — being unwilling 
in advanced life, to sever his efforts from the pro- 
tection of that learning and excellence which first 
directed and cheered them. To the sonnets and 
verses which were included in former editions, he 
has added a few more, which names and circumstances 
may invest with an interest independent of that 
intrinsic merit to which they have slender claim. 

London, 1852. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

PREFACE TO ION 3 

ION : A TRAGEDY 17 

DEDICATION OF THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE TO LORD DENMAN 129 

THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE : A TRAGEDY . . . .131 

DEDICATION OF GLENCOE TO LORD JEFFREY . . . 224 

PREFACE TO GLENCOE 225 

GLENCOE : A TRAGEDY 231 

MINOR POEMS : — 

SONNETS — 

I. EVENING SEEVICE AT READING SCHOOL .... 333 

II. THE FORBURY AT READING 334 

III. ON HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE AT THE READING 

ELECTION, 1826, AT A DISTANCE 335 

IV. VIEW OP THE VALLEY OF READING FROM TILEHTJRST, AT 

THE CLOSE OF THE SAME ELECTION . . . . 336 

V. TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER 337 

VI. TO THE SAME RIVER . 338 

VII. TO MR. MACREADY, ON HIS REPRESENTATION OF WERNER 339 
VIII. FAME THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY . .340 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

IX. TO MR. MACREADY, ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD . . 341 

X. TO CHARLES DICKENS, ON "OLIVER TWIST " . . . 342 

XI. TO MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE, RETIRING FROM THE STAGE 343 

XII. ON THE RECEPTION OF WORDSWORTH AT OXFORD . . 344 

XIII. THE MEMORY OF THE POETS 345 

XIV. ETON COLLEGE, SURVEYED AFTER LEAVING A SON AT 



SCHOOL FOR THE FIRST TIME 



346 



XV. TO LORD DENMAN, RESIGNING THE OFFICE OF LORD CHIEF 

JUSTICE 347 

XVI. TO A LADY VISITING CHAMOUNI, FROM GENEVA . . 348 

XVII. THE WESTMINSTER PLAY 349 

XVIII. ON LOUGH'S STATUE OF LADY MACBETH .... 350 

XIX. RECOLLECTION OF THE LATE SIR M. A. SHEE, PRESIDING 
FOR THE LAST TIME AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE ROYAL 
ACADEMY .... 351 

XX. TO ROBERT BROWNING, SUGGESTED BY A SUNSET OF 

UNUSUAL BEAUTY 352 

ALUM BAY 353 

VERSES, MEMORIAL OF A CHILD NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB 35/ 

appendix :■ — 

NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY 363 



ION; 

A TKAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

FIRST ACTED AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE. 26'IH MAV, 1836. 



PREFACE TO ION. 



This tragedy was first printed for private circulation in 
April, 1835. The following extracts from the preface 
with which it was then accompanied, disclose the little 
history of its composition, and the feeling with which it 
was originally committed to the press. 

" The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy 
of Euripides, which gave the first hint of the situation in 
which its hero is introduced — that of a foundling youth 
educated in a temple, and assisting in its services ; but 
otherwise there is no resemblance between this imperfect 
sketch and that exquisite picture. It has been written, 
not indeed without a view to an ideal stage, which should 
never be absent from the mind of the humblest aspirant to 
dramatic composition, but without any hope of rendering 
it worthy to be acted. If it were regarded as a drama 
composed for actual representation, I am well aware that 
not in ' matter of form ' only, but in '■ matter of substance,' 
it would be found wanting. The idea of the principal 
character, — that of a nature essentially pure and disin- 
terested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness and 
thought, not overcoming evil by the force of will, but 
escaping it by an insensibility to its approach, — vividly 
conscious of existence and its pleasures, yet ready to lay 
them down at the call of duty, — is scarcely capable of 

b2 



4 PREFACE TO ION. 

being rendered sufficiently striking in itself, or of being 
subjected to such agitations, as tragedy requires in the 
fortunes of its heroes. It was further necessary, in order 
to involve such a character in circumstances which might 
excite terror or grief or joy, to introduce other machinery 
than that of passions working naturally within, or events 
arising from ordinary and probable motives without ; as 
its own elements would not supply the contests of tragic 
emotion, nor would its sufferings, however accumulated, 
present a varied or impressive picture. Recourse has 
therefore been had, not only to the old Grecian notion of 
Destiny, apart from all moral agencies, and to a prophecy 
indicating its purport, in reference to the individuals in- 
volved in its chain, but to the idea of fascination, as an 
engine by which Fate may work its purposes on the 
innocent mind, and force it into terrible action most un- 
congenial to itself, but necessary to the issue. Either 
perhaps of these aids might have been permitted, if used 
in accordance with the entire spirit of the piece ; but the 
employment of loth could not be justified in a drama in- 
tended for visual presentation, in which a certain veri- 
similitude is essential to the faith of the spectator. 
Whether any groups, surrounded with the associations of 
the Greek Mythology, and subjected to the capricious 
laws of Greek superstition, could be endowed by genius 
itself with such present life as to awaken the sympathies 
of an English audience, may well be doubted ; but it 
cannot be questioned, that except by sustaining a stern 
unity of purpose, and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian 
sentiment over the whole, so as to render the picture 
national and coherent in all its traits, the effect must be 
unsatisfactory and unreal. Conscious of my inability to 
produce a work thus justified to the imagination by its 
own completeness and power, I have not attempted it ; 
but have sought, out of mere weakness, for Tate and 



PREFACE TO ION. 5 

metaphysical aid,' to ' crown withal ' the ordinary persons 
of a romantic play. I have, therefore, asked too much 
for a spectator to grant : but the case is different with the 
reader who does not seek the powerful excitements of the 
theatre, nor is bound to a continuous attention ; and who, 
for the sake of scattered sentiments or expressions which 
may please him, may, at least, by a latitude of friendly 
allowance, forgive the incongruities of the machinery by 
which the story is conducted. This drama may be 
described as the phantasm of a tragedy, — not a thing of 
substance mortised into the living rock of humanity, — 
and therefore incapable of exciting that interest which 
grows out of human feeling, or of holding that permanent 
place in the memory which truth only can retain. 

" There are few perhaps among those who have written 
for the press, predominant as that majority now is over 
the minority of mere readers, who have not, at some 
season of their lives, contemplated the achievement of a 
tragedy. The narrow and well-defined limits by which 
the action of tragedy is circumscribed — the various affec- 
tions which may live and wrestle, and suffer within those 
palpable boundaries — its appeal to the sources of grief 
common to humanity on the one hand, and to the most 
majestic shapings of the imagination on the other, softening 
and subduing the heart to raise and to ennoble it, — and 
perhaps, more than all, the vivid presentment of the forms 
in which the strengths and weaknesses of our nature are 
embodied, its calamities dignified, and its high destiny 
vindicated, even in the mortal struggle by which for a 
season it is vanquished, — may well impress every mind, 
reaching, however feebly, towards the creative, with a 
fond desire to imitate the great masters of its ' so potent 
art.' This desire has a powerful ally in the exuberant 
spirits of youth, when the mind, unchilled by the reali- 
ties of life, searches for novelty in those forms of sorrow, 



6 PREFACE TO ION. 

from which it afterwards may turn for relief to the 
flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches of social 
pleasure. Perhaps ' gorgeous tragedy ' left a deeper im- 
pression when she passed ' sweeping by' my intellectual 
vision, than would have been otherwise received by a 
mind unapt for so high a correspondence, by reason of the 
accident that the glimpse was stolen. Denied by the 
conscientious scruples of friends an early acquaintance 
with plays, I had derived from Mrs. More's 'Sacred 
Dramas' my first sense of that peculiar enjoyment which 
the idea of dramatic action, however imperfectly con- 
veyed, gives ; and, stiff and cumbrous as they now seem, I 
owe to their author that debt of gratitude, which others 
may perhaps share with me, who have first looked on the 
world of literature through the net-work of sincere 
but exclusive opinions. These gave, however, but dim 
limits of the greatness which was behind ; — I looked into 
the domain of tragedy as into a mountain region covered 
with mist and cloud ; — and incapable of appreciating the 
deep humanities of Shakspeare, ' rested and expatiated ' 
in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, Eowe, and Addison. 
To describe the delight with which, for the first time, 
I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre raised for 
the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it was 
sustained during the noble performance which followed, 
when the visions of Eoman constancy and classic grace, 
which had haunted the mind through all its schoolboy 
years (then drawing to a close), seemed bodied forth in 
palpable form, when the poor common-places of an arti- 
ficial diction flowed 'mended from the tongue' of the 
actor, and the thoughtful words trembling on his lips 
suggested at once the feeling of earthly weakness and of 
immortal hope, — and when the old stoic, in his rigid 
grandeur was reconciled to the human heart by the struggle 
of paternal love, and became 'passioned as ourselves,' 



PREFACE TO ION. 



without losing any portion of that statue-like dignity 
which made him the representative of a world of heroic 



" After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long 
haunted by the idle wish to write a tragedy ; and many 
hours did I happily, but vainly, spend in sober con- 
templations of its theme. I tried to wreath several 
romantic and impossible stories, which I fashioned in my 
evening walks into acts, and began to write a scene ; but 
however pleased I might be with the outline of these fan- 
tasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate bald- 
ness and fustian of the blank verse, which I produced in 
the attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time 
also just as the laborious avocations of my life were com- 
mencing, my taste and feeling, as applied to poetry, 
underwent an entire change consequent on my becoming 
acquainted with the poetry of "Wordsworth. That power 
which, slighted and scoffed at as it was then, has since 
exerted a purifying influence on the literature of this 
country, such as no other individual power has ever 
wrought ; which has not only given to the material uni- 
verse ' a speech and a language ' before unheard, but has 
opened new sources of enjoyment even in the works of the 
greatest poets of past days, and imparted a new sense by 
which we may relish them ; — which, while on the one hand 
it has dissipated the sickly fascinations of gaudy phrase- 
ology, has, on the other, cast around the lowliest con- 
ditions a new and exquisite light, and traced out the links 
of good by which all human things are bound together, and 
clothed our earthly life in the solemnities which belong to 
its origin and its destiny — humbled the pride of my 
swelling conceits, and taught me to look on the mighty 
works of genius, not with the presumption of an imitator, 
but with the veneration of a child. The love of contem- 
plative poetry, thus inspired, led me, in such leisure as I 



8 PREFACE TO ION. 

could attain, rather to ponder over the resources of the 
profoundest emotions, or to regard them as associated 
with the majestic forms of the universe, than to follow 
them into their violent conflicts and mournful catastrophes ; 
and although I never ceased to regard the acted drama as 
the most delightful of recreations, I sought no longer to 
work out a frigid imitation of writers, whom alone I 
could hope to copy, and whose enchantments were dis- 
sipated by more genial magic. 

" But the tragic drama was about to revive amongst us, 
and I was not insensible to its progress. Although the 
tragedies of the last twelve years are not worthy to be 
compared with the noblest productions of the great age of 
our drama, they are with two or three exceptions, far 
superior to any which had been written in the interval. 
Since the last skirts of the glory of Shakspeare's age dis- 
appeared, we shall search in vain for serious plays of equal 
power and beauty with Virginius, William Tell, Miran- 
dola, Rienzi, or the Merchant of London ; at least, if we 
except Venice Preserved for the admirable conduct of its 
story, and Douglas for that romantic tenderness and 
pathos which have been too little appreciated of late 
years. It happened to me to be intimately acquainted 
with all those who contributed to this impulse, and to 
take an immediate interest in their successes. I also 
enjoyed the friendship of the delightful artist to whom all 
have by turns been indebted for the realisation of their 
noblest conceptions, and was enabled to enjoy with more 
exquisite relish the home-born affection with which those 
were endued, and the poetical spirit breathed around them, 
by finding the same influences shed by Mr. Macready over 
the sphere of his social and domestic life. It will not be 
surprising, that, to one thus associated, the old wish to 
accomplish something in dramatic shape should recur, 
not accompanied by the hopes of sharing in the scenic 



PREFACE TO ION. 9 

triumphs of his friends, but bounded by the possibility of 
conducting a tale through dialogue to a close, and of 
making it subserve to the expression of some cherished 
thoughts. In this state of feeling, some years ago, the 
scheme of the drama of Ion presented itself to me ; and 
after brooding over it for some time, I wrote a prose out- 
line of its successive scenes, nearly in the order and to 
the effect in which they are now completed, and made 
some progress in an opening scene of which little now 
remains. The attempt was soon laid aside ; for I found 
the composition of dramatic blank verse even more diffi- 
cult now that I had present to me the ease and vividness 
of my friends, than when I had been contented to emulate 
the ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. 
Still the idea of my hero occurred to me often ; I found 
my pleasantest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather 
more than two years ago I determined to make one essay 
more. Since that time, such seasons of leisure as I could 
find have been devoted to the work ; but T had so great 
distrust of my ability to complete it, that I did not men- 
tion my design to any one ; and I cannot charge myself 
with having permitted it to interfere with any professional 
or private duty. At the close of last year, I found four 
acts reduced into form. At this time, the sudden realisa- 
tion of another youthful dream opened to me the prospect 
of additional duties, which I knew full well ought to pre- 
clude the continuance of those secret flirtations with the 
Muse in which I had indulged ; and therefore I resolved 
to make a last effort, and, by completing my drama before 
those duties should commence, to free myself from the 
bondage of those threads of fantastical interest which had 
woven themselves about my mind. I accordingly wrote 
the fifth act with far more rapidity than any of the pre- 
vious passages of my play ; and, before I was called upon 
to share in more momentous business, I had communicated 



10 PREFACE TO ION. 

to a few friends the result of my scribblings, and bade 
adieu to my dramatic endeavours and hopes. 

"But it may well be asked, Why, with the sense I have 
confessed of the feebleness of this poetical sketch, 1 ven- 
ture to intrude it on my friends 1 My chief reason is, 
that I am anxious to cast from my own mind the associa- 
tions which have hung about it during the composition of 
the poem, and which, while it remained in manuscript 
susceptible of alteration, I could not certainly -hope for ; 
and, further, to preclude the charge (if it should ever be 
brought to light hereafter,) that it had occupied leisure 
which henceforth must be devoted to other studies. I 
have also a desire to gratify myself by presenting it to my 
friends, especially to those who are removed to a distance ; 
because, although as a drama it is unworthy the attention 
of the world, yet, as containing thoughts which have 
passed through my own mind, it may be acceptable to 
those whose conversation I can no longer enjoy. It would 
be a sufficient reason to myself for printing it, that I shall 
be able thus to remind Sir Edward Eyan, now, most 
honourably to himself, and happily for India, Chief 
Justice of Bengal, and his excellent colleague, Sir Ben- 
jamin Malkin, of the delightful hours we have spent 
together on the Oxford circuit, when life was younger 
with us, and when some of the topics they will find just 
touched on in these verses were the themes of our graver 
walks between Ross and Monmouth, or in the deep 
winding valleys indenting the table-land above Church 
Stretton, or haply by moonlight in the Churchyard of 
Ross.* I take leave to mention these, as far away ; but 
there are others of my fellow-labourers at home, whose 

* Since this reference to the friends of my early professional life was 
written, Sir Edward Eyan has returned to his country to enjoy the just 
reward of his labours in the East with the dignity of a Privy Councillor, 
and the satisfaction of accepting with the honour attendant duties, which 
his judicial ability and experience peculiarly fit him to discharge. The 



PREFACE TO ION. 11 

sympathy and whose conversation have cheered my pro- 
fessional life, who I believe will receive it cordially ; and 
among them I hope my sometime Sessions-leader, who has 
committed a similar offence, though with more extenu- 
ating circumstances, by investing with so much dignity of 
passion and richness of language the story of the Countess 
of Essex, will not disdain it." 

With these views Ion was sent to the press, and pre- 
sented to many of my friends. The favour with which it 
was received by some, whose approbation was most 
valuable, would have induced me at once to publish it, if I 
had not been withheld by the suggestion of Mr.Macready, 
that it would be effective in representation, and by the 
belief that any interest which might be excited by such 
an attempt would be lessened by its previous sale. The 
prospect, that, at least for one evening, the dull tracery 
of thought, silently and laboriously woven, might burst 
into light at the torch of sympathy and become palpable 
to the senses and the affections of a multitude, was too 
delightful to be resigned, and was ultimately realised by 
the friend who had opened it. His consent to produce 
the drama on the night of his benefit secured it against 
painful repulse ; and, although I had still no expectation 
that even he could endue it with sufficient interest to 
render it attractive on ordinary occasions, I looked for- 
ward to its single representation in the belief that it would 
be tolerated by an audience disposed to be gratified, and 
that the impression it might leave, however faint, would 
be genial and pure. Many of those who had expressed 
the most favourable opinions of the piece as a composition 
Were even less sanguine than myself as to the probable 

other, Sir Benjamin Malkin, has heen taken from this world in the prime of 
life, and in the fulness of his powers, — leaving with us the recollection of an 
intellect as masculine and as refined — of judgment and feeling as discri- 
minating and just — and of social qualities as warm and as equable, as have 
ever passed, by the mysterious dispensation of Providence, from vigorous 
exercise into a memory and an example. 



12 PREFACE TO ION. 

event of the evening, and apprehended that it would ter- 
minate in their mortification and my own. They did not 
perceive the possibility of infusing such life into the cha- 
racter of its youthful hero, as would bring the whole fable 
within the sphere of human sympathies ; reconcile the 
audience to its machinery ; and render that which seemed 
only consistent in its dreaminess, at once entire and real. 
Such was, however, unquestionably the effect of Mr. 
Macready's performance on that evening, which I believe, 
— in the judgment of many who cannot be influenced, like 
the author, by personal regard or individual gratitude, — 
was one of the most remarkable triumphs of art which have 
graced the stage within living memory. Although other 
of his performances were abstractedly greater, none I 
believe equalled this as an effort of art, estimated with 
reference to the nature of the materials which he ani- 
mated, to difficulties which he subdued, and to the pre- 
conceptions which he charmed away. By the graces of 
beautiful elocution, he beguiled the audience to receive 
the drama as belonging to a range of associations which 
are no longer linked with the living world, but which 
retain an undying interest of a gentler cast, as a thing 
which might have been ; and then, by his fearful power of 
making the fantastic real, he gradually rendered the 
whole possible — probable — true ! The consequence of 
this extraordinary power of vivifying the frigid, and 
familiarising the remote, was to dissipate the fears of my 
friends ; to render the play an object of attraction during 
the short remainder of the season ; and to embolden 
others to attempt the part, and encourage other audiences 
to approve it, even when the power which first gave it 
sanction was wanting. 

How little it was anticipated that the success of the 
first performance would justify its repetition, may be 
gathered from the prologue, which was spoken on that 



PREFACE TO ION. 

occasion by Mr. Serle, whose earnest and laborious pur- 
suit of excellence as a dramatic poet from early youth 
I have watched with admiration ; whose successes I have 
hailed with delight ; and whose association with me in 
the night's venture is among its happiest recollections. 

" What airy visions on a play's first night 
Have flush'd refulgent here on poet's sight ! 
While emulous of glory's stainless wreath, 
He felt ' the future in the instant' breathe; 
Saw in the soften'd gleam of radiant eyes 
The sacred tear through lids yet tearless rise; 
Made to each fervid heart the great appeal 
To bear him witness — stamp'd with living seal — 
Of passion into forms of grandeur wrought, 
Or grief by beauty tinged, or raised by thought : 
As cordial hands their liberal boon couferr'd, 
Fame's awful whisper in the distance heard, 
Now shrunk from nicest fear, from fancied scorn, — 
Now glow'd with hope for ' age yet unborn.' 

"With no such trembling sense of inward power 
Our author seeks to win his little hour, 
While to your transient glance, he dares unveil 
The feeble outlines of a Grecian tale. 
He boasts no magic skill your souls to draw 
Within the circle of Athenian awe ; 
Where Fate on all things solemn beauty throws, 
And shapes heroic mourn in stern repose ; 
Or to reveal the fane where genius tips 
With love's immortal lustre heavenly lips, 
Where airs divine yet breathe round forms s fair, 
That Time enamour'd has been charm'd to spare ; 
Nor his the power which deeds of old imbues 
With present life, and tints with various hues ; 
Casts glowing passion in heroic moulds, 
And makes young feelings burn 'neath ancient folds 
Unlearn'd in arts like these, he seeks to cast 
One faint reflection from the glorious past ; 
A narrow space his fond ambition bounds, — 
His little scenic life this evening rounds ! 

" O ! if some image pure a moment play 
O'er the soul's mirror ere it pass away ; 
If from some chance-sown thought a genial nerve 
Should, heart-strung, quicken virtue's cause to serve ; 
Let these slight gifts the breath of kindness claim 
For one night's bubble on the sea of Fame, 
Which tempts no aid, which future praise insures, — 
But lives— glows— trembles— and expires in yours ! " 



PKEFACE TO ION. 

The unhoped-for prolongation of the dramatic life of 
Ion has not altered the opinion of its essential defects 
which I expressed in the original preface ; but it has 
been delightful to me, not only because it has gratified an 
author's passionate desire for the embodiment of his work 
in theatrical action, but because it has induced a convic- 
tion that gentleness and self-sacrifice have charms for the 
multitude which neither the frigidity of a Greek plot, nor 
the feebleness of its development, nor manifold errors of 
composition, can destroy. 

T. K T. 

London, 1852. 



PEKSONS OF THE DEAMA. 



Adrastus, King of Argos. 

Medon, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo. 

Crtthes, Captain of the Royal Guard. 

Phocion, son of Medon. 

Ctesiphon, 1 ,- . . 

„ > noble Argive youths. 

Cassander, J 

Ion, a foundling youth. 

Agenor, -J 

Cleon, [.sages of Argos. 

Timocles, J 

Irus, a boy, slave to Agenor. 

Clemanthe, daughter of Medon. 

Habra, attendant on Clemanthe. 

Scene — Argos. 

The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night, 
and the following morning. 



i 



ION; 

A TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is 

to be placed on a rocky eminence overlooking the city of Argos. 
Early morning. The interior lighted by a single lamp suspended 
from the roof. Agenor resting against a column; — Ibus 
seated on a bench at the side of the scene. 

Agenor comes forward and speaks. 



Will the dawn never visit us ? These hours 

Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 

To do the work of desolating years ! 

All distant sounds are hush'd ; — the shriek of death 

And the survivors' wail are now unheard, 

As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus ! 

I'm loth so soon to break thy scanty rest, 

But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 

Is it not breaking? — speed and look — yet hold, 

Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs 

Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point 

That stretches eastward ? 



18 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

IRTJS. 

Know it ? full well ! 
There often have I bless'd the opening day, 
Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
In happy wandering through the forests. 

AGENOR. 

Well, 
Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there 
The earliest streak from the unrisen sun 
Is to be welcomed ; — tell me how it gleams, 
In bloody portent or in saffron hope, 
And K ten back to slumber. 

IRTJS. 

I shall hasten : 
Believe not that thy summons broke my rest ; 
I was not sleeping. [Exit irus. 

AGENOR. 

Heaven be with thee, child ! 
His grateful mention of delights bestow'd 
On that most piteous state of servile childhood 
By liberal words chance-dropp'd, has touch'd a vein 
Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, 
And, by a gush of household memories, breaks 
The icy casing of that thick despair 
Which day by day has gather'd o'er my heart, 
While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, 
Uplifted far into the purer air 
And by Apollo's partial love secured, 
I have, in spirit, glided with the plague 
As in foul darkness or in sickliest light 
It wafted death through Argos ; and mine ears, 



scene i.] ION; A TKAGEDY. 

Listening athirst for any human sound, 
Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, 
Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind 
Has borne from each sad quarter of the vale 
Where life was. 

Re-enter Irus. 
Are there signs of day-break ? 

IRUS. 

None; 
The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 

AGENOR. 

It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim 
(No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now 
I look upon them near, with scalding tears. 
Has care alighted on a head so young ? 
What grief hast thou been weeping ? 

IRUS. 

Pardon me ; 
I never thought at such a mournful time 
To plead my humble sorrow in excuse 
Of feebly-render'd service : but my brother — 
Thou mayst have noted him, — a sturdy lad, 
With eye so merry and with foot so light 
That none could chide his wildest moods — fell sick 
But yesterday, and died in my weak arms 
Ere I could seek for stouter aid : I hoped 
That I had taught my grief to veil its signs 
From thy observant care ; but when I stood 
Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, 
Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails — 
His favourite pastime, for he burn'd to share 

c2 



20 ION ; A TEAGEDY. [act i. 

A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow, 
And I forgot to dry them. But I see 
Cleon is passing yonder ; let me call him ; 
For it must cheer thy heart to speak with him. 

AGENOR. 

Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 

Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit ikus. 

I envy thee 
The privilege, but Jupiter forefend 
That I should rob thee of it ! 

Enter Cleon. 
cleon. 

Hail, Agenor ! 
Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
To find thy age unstricken. 

AGENOR. 

Rather mourn 
That I am destined still to linger here 
In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. 
I chide these sinews that are framed so tough 
Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air 
Which round this citadel of nature breathes 
With sweetness not of this world ; I would share 
The common grave of my dear countrymen, 
And sink to rest while all familiar things, 
Old custom has endear'd are failing with me, 
Rather than shiver on in life behind them : 
Nor should these walls detain me from the paths 
Where death may be embraced, but that my word, 
In a rash moment plighted to our host, 



scene i.] ION; A TKAGEDY. 

Forbids me to depart without his licence, 
Which firmly he refuses. 



Do not chide me 
If I rejoice to find the generous priest 
Strives, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve 
The treasure of thy wisdom ; — nay, he trusts not 
To promises alone ; his gates are barr'd 
Against thy egress : — none, indeed, may pass them 
Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer 
His foster-father grants reluctant leave 
To visit the sad city at his will : 
And freely does he use the dangerous boon, 
Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him, 
Since he was found within the sacred grove, 
Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, 
Should have had sternness to deny. 

AGENOE. 

What, Ion 
The only inmate of this fane allow'd 
To seek the mournful scenes where death is busy ! — 
Ion our sometime darling, whom we prized 
As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd 
From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud 
To make the happy happier ! Is he sent 
To grapple with the miseries of this time, 
Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears 
As it would perish at the touch of wrong ? 
By no internal contest is he train'd 
For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
Has his clear spirit vanquish'd ; — Love, the germ 



22 ION; A TEAGEDY. [act i. 

Of his mild nature, has spread graces forth, 

Expanding with its progress, as the store 

Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals 

Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 

To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 

Has fill'd his eye save that of thoughtful joy 

When, in the evening stilness, lovely things 

Press'd on his soul too busily ; his voice, 

If, in the earnestness of childish sports, 

Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force, 

As if it fear'd to break its being's law, 

And falter 'd into music ; when the forms 

Of guilty passion have been made to live 

In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud 

In righteous indignation, he has heard 

With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 

Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd, 

Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life has flow'd 

From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, 

In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 

Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 

May hover round its surface, glides in light, 

And takes no shadow from them. 

CLEON. 

Yet, methinks, 
Thou hast not lately met him, or a change 
Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. 
His form appears dilated ; in those eyes 
Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells ; 
Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now 
Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care : 
Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 23 

A stripling's playful happiness, are strung 

As if the iron hardships of the camp 

Had given them sturdy nurture ; and his step, 

Its airiness of yesterday forgotten, 

Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts, 

As if a hero of the ancient mould 

Paced them in armour. 



Hope is in thy tale. 
This is no freak of nature's wayward course, 
But work of pitying Heaven ; for not in vain 
The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart 
The strengths that nerve the hero ; — they are ours. 

CLEON. 

How can he aid us ? Can he stay the pulse 
Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected winds, 
Or smite the hungry spectre of the grave ? 

AGENOR. 

And dost thou think these breezes are our foes, — 
The innocent airs that used to dance around us, 
As if they felt the blessings they convey 'd, 
Or that the death they bear is casual ? No ! 
'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, 
Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, 
Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air, 
Turns all the joyous melodies of earth 
To murmurings of doom. There is a foe 
Who in the glorious summit of the state 
Draws down the great resentment of the gods, 
Whom he defies to strike us ; — yet his power 
Partakes that just infirmity which nature 



24 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

Blends in the empire of her proudest sons — 
That it is cased within a single breast, 
And may be pluck'd thence by a single arm. 
Let but that arm, selected by the gods, 
Do its great office on the tyrant's life, 
And Argos breathes again ! 

CLEON. 

A footstep ! — hush ! 
Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear, 
Would tempt another outrage : 'tis a friend — 
An honest though a crabbed one — Timocles : 
Something hath ruffled him. — Good day, Timocles ! 

[Timocles passes in front. 

He will not speak to us. 

AGENOB. 

But he shall speak. 
Timocles — nay then, thus I must enforce thee ; 

[Crossing him. 

Thou wilt not cast from thee a comrade's hand 
That may be cold ere sunset. 

timocles {giving his hand). 

Thou mayst school me ; 
Thy years and love have licence : but I own not 
A stripling's mastery ; is't fit, Agenor ? 

AGENOR. 

Nay, thou must tell thy wrong ; whate'er it prove, 

I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign, 

For it revives the thought of household days, 

When the small bickerings of friends had space 

To fret, and death was not for ever nigh 

To frown upon estrangement. What has moved thee ? 



scene i.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. 2 

TIMOCLES. 

I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 

And of my life, I sought the western portal : 

It open'd, when ascending from the stair 

That through the rock winds spiral from the town, 

Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the priest, 

Stood in the entrance : with such mild command 

As he has often smilingly obey'd, 

I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 

When — wouldst thou think it ? — in determined speech 

He gave me counsel to return ; I press'd 

Impatient onward : he, with honied phrase 

His daring act excusing, grasp 'd my arm 

With strength resistless ; led me from the gate ; 

Replaced its ponderous bars ; and, with a look 

As modest as he wore in childhood, left me. 

AGENOR. 

And thou wilt thank him for it soon ; he comes — 
Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst ! 

Enter Ion. 
ion. 
I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore 
Again thy pardon. I am young in trust, 
And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, 
I stay'd thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne 
My childish folly often, — do not frown 
If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal 
To guard the ripe experience of years 
From one rash moment's danger. 



26 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

TIMOCLES. 

Leave thy care. 
If I am weary of the flutterer life, 
Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in ? 



And art thou tired of being ? Has the grave 

No terrors for thee ? Hast thou sunder'd quite 

Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 

To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 

With airy lustre various ? Hast subdued 

Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, 

Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, 

That change the valour of the thoughtful breast 

To brave dissimulation of its fears ? 

Is hope quench'd in thy bosom ? Thou art free, 

And in the simple dignity of man 

Standest apart untempted : — do not lose 

The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery, 

Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, 

But use it nobly ! 

TIMOCLES. 

What, to strike ? to slay ? 

ION. 

No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven 
Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed 
On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power 
In words immortal, — not such words as flash 
From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage, 
To madden for a moment and expire, — 
Nor such as the rapt orator imbues 
With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds 



scene i.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. 

To mirrors radiant with fair images, 

To grace the noble fervour of an hour ; — 

But words which bear the spirits of great deeds 

Wing'd for the future ; which the dying breath 

Of freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, 

And to the most enduring forms of earth 

Commits — to linger in the craggy shade 

Of the deep valley, 'neath the eagle's home, 

Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, 

Till some heroic leader bid them wake 

To thrill the world with echoes ! — But I talk 

Of things above my grasp, which strangely press 

Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget 

The duties of my youth ; — pray you forgive me. 

TIMOCLES. 

Have I not said so ? 

AGENOR. 

Welcome to the morn ! 
The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 

[As Agenor speaks, the great gates at the lack of the scene open , 
the sea is discovered far beneath, — the dawn breaking over it , 
Medon, the Priest, enters attended. 

And lo ! the sun is struggling with the gloom, 
Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints 
Its edges with dull red ; — but he will triumph ; 
Bless'd be the omen ! 



God of light and joy, 
Once more refresh us with thy healing beams ! 
If I may trace thy language in the clouds 
That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh — 
But help achieved in blood. 



28 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act i. 

ION. 

Say'st thou in blood ? 

MEDON. 

Yes, Ion ! — why, he sickens at the word, 
Spite of his new-born strength ; — the sights of woe 
That he will seek have shed their paleness on him. 
Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow? 

ION. 

I pass'd the palace where the frantic king 
Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar 
Of desperate mirth came mingling with the sigh 
Of sturdy life just conquer'd, and the gleam 
Of festal lamps 'mid spectral columns hung 
Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish made them ghastlier. 
How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones 
He mocks — and him the wretchedest of all ? 

TIMOCLES. 

And canst thou pity him ? Dost thou discern, 
Amidst his impious darings, plea for him ? 

ION. 

Is he not childless, friendless, and a king ? 
He's human ; and some pulse of good must live 
Within his nature — have ye tried to wake it ? 

MEDON. 

Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
When, at my strong entreaty, he despatch 'd 
Phocion my son to Delphos, there to seek 
Our cause of sorrow ; but, as time dragg'd on 
Without his messenger's return, he grew 
Impatient of all counsel, — to his palace 



scene i.] ION; A TEAGEDY. 

In awful mood retiring, wildly call'd 
The reckless of his court to share his stores 
And end all with him. When we dared disturb 
His dreadful feastings with a humble prayer 
That he would meet us, the poor slave, who bore 
The message, flew back smarting from the scourge, 
And mutter'd a decree that he who next 
Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die. 

AGENOK. 

I am prepared to brave it. 

CLEON. 

So am I. 



TIMOCLES. 

Andl— 



Sages, do not think my prayer 
Bespeaks unseemly forwardness — send me ! 
The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh, 
If Heaven select it for its instrument, 
May shed celestial music on the breeze 
As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold 
Befits the lip of Phoebus ; — ye are wise ; 
And needed by your country ; ye are fathers ; 
I am a lone stray thing, whose little life 
By strangers' bounty cherish'd, like a wave 
That from the summer's sea a wanton breeze 
Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside 
Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking. 



Ion, no sigh ! 



30 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act 

ION. 

Forgive me if I seem'd 
To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall ; 
Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear, 
But that high promptings, which could never rise 
Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 
Thus boldly for the mission. 

MEDON. 

My brave boy ! 
It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd 
To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. 
When wilt thou be prepared to seek it ? 

ION. 

Now. 
Only before I go, thus, on my knee, 
Let me in one word thank thee for a life 
Made by thy love one cloudless holiday ; 
And 0, my more than father, let me look 
Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 
And give me a son's blessing ! 

MEDON. 

Bless thee, son ! 
I should be marble now ; let's part at once. 

ION. 

If I should not return, bless Phocion for me ; 
And, for Clemanthe — may I speak one word, 
One parting word with my fair playfellow ? 

MEDON. 

If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt. 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 31 

ION. 

Farewell then ! 
Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven 
I feel in life or death will be around me. [Exit. 

MEDON. 

grant it be in life ! Let's to the sacrifice. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — An Apartment of the Temple. 
Enter Clemanthe, followed by Habra. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Is he so changed ? 

HABRA. 

His bearing is so alter'd, 
That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself ; 
But, looking in his face, I felt his smile 
Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore 
Unwonted sorrow in it. 

CLEMANTHE. 

He will go 
To some high fortune, and forget us all, 
Eeclaim'd (be sure of it) by noble parents ; 
Me he forgets already ; for five days, 
Five melancholy days, I have not seen him. 

HABRA. 

Thou knowest that he has privilege to range 
The infected city ; and, 'tis said he spends 
The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
Where death is most forsaken. 



32 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act i 

GLEMANTHE. 

Why is this ? 
Why should my father, niggard of the lives 
Of aged men, be prodigal of } T outh 
So rich in glorious prophecy as his ? 

HABKA. 

He comes to answer for himself. I '11 leave you. [Exit. 

CLEHANTHE. 

Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
By its own strength. 

Enter Ion. 

ion. 
How fares my pensive sister? 

CLEHANTHE. 

How should I fare but ill when the pale hand 
Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain 
Closer and closer round us — Phocion absent — 
And thou, forsaking all within thy home, 
Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid 
Even thou canst do but little ? 

ION. 

It is little : 
But in these sharp extremities of fortune, 
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
Have their own season. Tis a little thing - 
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment, drain 'd by fever'd lips, 
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
More exquisite than when nectarean juice 
Pienews the life of joy in happiest hours. 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
Of common comfort which by daily use 
Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 
Of him who thought to die unmourn'd, 'twill fall 
Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye 
"With welcome tears ; relax the knotted hand 
To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 
And shed on the departing soul a sense, 
More precious than the benison of friends 
About the honour'd death-bed of the rich, 
To him who else were lonely, that another 
Of the same human mould is near and feels. 

CLEMANTHE. 

0, thou canst never bear these mournful offices ! 
So blithe, so merry once ! Will not the sight 
Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason, 
Or the dumb woe congeal thee ? 

ION. 

No, Clemanthe : 
They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest ! 
If thou hadst seen the warrior when he writhed 
In the last grapple of his sinewy frame 
With conquering anguish strive to cast a smile 
(And not in vain) upon his fragile wife, 
Waning beside him, — and, his limbs composed, 
The widow of the moment fix her gaze 
Of longing, speechless love upon the babe, 
The only living thing which yet was hers, 
Spreading its arms for its own resting-place, 
Yet, with attenuated hand, wave off 
The unstricken child, and so embraceless die 

D 



34 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act i 

Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart ; 
Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief 
In sullenness or frenzy ; — but to-day 
Another lot falls on me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou wilt leave us ! 
I read it plainly in thy altered mien ; 
Is it for ever ? 

ION. 

That is with the gods ! 
I go but to the palace, urged by hope, 
Which from afar hath darted on my soul, 
That to the humble prayer of one like me 
The haughty king may listen. 

CLEMANTHE. 

To the palace ! 
Knowest thou the peril — nay the certain issue 
That waits thee ? Death ! — the tyrant has decreed it, 
Confirm'd it with an oath ; and he has power 
To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 
The reckless soldiers who partake his riot 
Are swift to do his bidding. 

ION. 

I know all ! 
But Jove who calls me to the work can shield me, 
Or make me strong to suffer. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Then the sword 
Falls on thy neck ! gods ! to think that thou, 
Who in the plenitude of youthful life 



scene XI.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. 35 

Art now before me, ere the sun decline, 

Perhaps in one short hour, shall lie cold, cold, 

To speak, smile, bless no more ! — Thou shalt not go ! 

ION. 

Thou must not stay me ; even thy father's love 
Commends me to my mission. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Can he do this ? 
I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest 
By his consent ; so shall I be alone. 

ION. 

Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts 
Of thy admiring father close the gap 
Thy old companion left behind him. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Never ! 
What will to me be father, brother, friends, 
When thou art gone — the light of our life quench'd — 
Haunting like spectres of departed joy 
The home where thou wert dearest ? 

ION. 

Thrill me not 
With words that, in their agony, suggest 
A hope too ravishing, — or my head will swim, 
And my heart faint within me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Has my speech 
Such blessed power ? I will not mourn it then, 
Though it hath told a secret I had borne 
Till death in silence : — how affection grew 

d2 



36 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act i. 

To this, I know not ; — day succeeded day, 
Each fraught with the same innocent delights, 
Without one shock to ruffle the disguise 
Of sisterly regard which thinly veil'd it, 
Till thy changed mien reveal'd it to my soul, 
And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. 
Do not despise it in me ! 



With deep joy 
Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long 
Since I have learn'd to tremble 'midst our pleasures, 
Lest I should break the golden dream around me 
With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless 
The sharp and perilous duty which hath press 'd 
A life's deliciousness into these moments, — 
Which here must end. I came to say farewell, 
And the word must be said. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou canst not mear. it ! 
Have I disclaimed all maiden bashfulness, 
To tell the cherish'd secret of my soul 
To my soul's master, and in rich return 
Obtain'd the clear assurance of his love, 
To hear him speak that miserable word 
I cannot — will not echo ? 

ION. 

Heaven has call'd me, 
And I have pledged my honour. When thy heart 
Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy, 
Thou didst not image him a recreant ; nor 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 37 

Must he prove so, by thy election crown'd. 
Thou hast endow'd me with a right to claim 
Thy help through this our journey, be its course 
Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end ; 
And now I ask it ! — bid my courage hold, 
And with thy free approval send me forth 
In soul apparell'd for my office ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Go! 
I would not have thee other than thou art, 
Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 

ION. 

Be sure I shall return. 

CLEMANTHE. 

If thou shouldst fall, 
I shall be ha.ppier as the affianced bride 
Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 

T- e — ever thine [She faints in his arms. 

ion (calls). 

Habra ! — So best to part — 

Enter Habka. 
Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
I know thy tenderness — should ill news come 
Of any friend, she will require it all. 

[Habra bears Clemanthe out. 

Ye gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim 
With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 

[Exit. 



ION; A TEAGEDY. [act n. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Terrace of the Palace. 

Adrastus, Crythes. 
adrastus. 
The air breathes freshly after our long night 
Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile. 

CRYTHES. 

It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
It bear infection with it ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Fear! doso >lk 
Of fear to me ? I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 
Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me 
In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness 
As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear ? 

CRYTHES. 

My liege, of human might all know thee fearless ; 
But may not heroes shun the elements 
When sickness taints them ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Let them blast me now !- 
I stir not ; tremble not ; these massive walls, 
Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
Of a great race of kings, along whose line 



scene I.] ION; A TRAGEDY. S 

The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness 

Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes 

Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port, 

And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time, 

Strike awe, as powers that ruled an elder world, 

In mute obedience. I, sad heritor 

Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh ; 

And I will meet it as befits their fame : 

Nor will I vary my selected path 

The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, 

If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 

CRYTHES. 

Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 

ADRASTTTS. 

No more— 
I would be private. [Exit Ceythes. 

Grovelling parasite ! 
Why should I waste these fate-environ'd hours, 
And pledge my great defiance to despair 
With flatterers such as thou ! — as if my joys 
Required the pale reflections cast by slaves 
In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
Through fate's black pageantry ? Let weakness seek 
Companionship : I'll henceforth feast alone. 

Enter a Soldier. 

SOLDIER. 

My liege, forgive me, — 

ADRASTUS. 

Well ! Speak out at once 
Thy business, and retire. 



40 ION; A TEAGEDY. [act ii. 

SOLDIER. 

I have no part 
In the presumptuous message that I bear. 

ADRASTUS. 

Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
On idle terrors. 

SOLDIER. 

Thus it is, my lord : 
As we were burnishing our arms, a man 
Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first 
Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze, 
We hail'd the rash intruder ; still he walk'd 
Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
Barr'd further course ; then turning, he besought 
Our startled band to herald him to thee, 
That he might urge a message which the sages 
Had charged him to deliver. 



Ah ! the graybeards 
Who, 'mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
To cast the image of supernal power 
From earth its shadow consecrates. What sage 
Is so resolved to play the orator 
That he would die for't ? 

SOLDIER. 

He is but a youth, 
Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy 
Which could not be denied. 

ADRASTUS. 

Most bravely plann'd ! 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 41 

Sedition worthy of the reverend host 

Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 

Of discontent 'midst sturdy artizans, 

Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, 

And make their proxies in the work of peril ! — 

'Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, 

And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life, 

Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 

Thou know'st my last decree ; tell this rash youth 

The danger he incurs ; — then let him pass, 

And own the king more gracious than his masters. 

SOLDIER. 

We have already told him of the fate 

Which waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us, 

But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 

ADRASTUS. 

Tell him once more, if he persists he dies — 
Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold 
His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him, 
And see the headsman instantly prepare 

To do his Office. [Exit Soldier. 

So resolved so young — 
'Twere pity he should fall ; yet he must fall, 
Or the great sceptre which hath sway'd the fears 
Of ages, will become a common staff 
For youth to wield, or age to rest upon, 
Despoil'd of all its virtues. He must fall, 
Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold, 
And with their pestilent vauntings through the city 
Kaise the low fog of murky discontent, 
Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birthplace, 






42 ION ; A TEAGEDY. [act ii. 

To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; 
And if he cross yon threshold he shall die. 

Enter Cetthes and Ion. 

CRYTHES. 

The king ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword [To Ceythes. 
Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready ? 

CRYTHES. 

Thou may'st behold them plainly in the court ; 
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground, 
The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave 
Disrobes himself for duty. 

ADEASTUS (tO Ion). 

Dost thou see them ! 

ION. 

I do. 

ADRASTUS. 

By Heaven, he does not change ! 
If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 

ION 

I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 
Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 
In all that makes life precious to the brave ; 
Who perish not alone, but in their fall 
Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed, 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 43 

And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 
For them, I am content to speak no more. 

ADRASTUS. 

Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
Shall cast its shadow on the approaching hour, 
I'll hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
Come without word, and lead him to his doom. 
Now leave us. 

CRYTHES. 

What, alone ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Yes, slave, alone. 
He is no assassin ! \_Exit ckythes. 

Tell me who thou art. 
What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great wars 
Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
Certain and speedy death, with placid eye ? 

ION. 

I am a simple youth who never bore 

The weight of armour, — one who may not boast 

Of noble birth or valour of his own. 

Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 

In thy great presence, and have made my heart 

Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 

As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 

Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 

Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial forms 

Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 

Of soft oblivion, to belong to me ! — 



44 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

These are the strengths of Heaven ; to thee they speak, 

Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 

Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 

ADRASTUS. 

I know it must ; so may'st thou spare thy warnings. 

The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, 

Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, 

Whence their own dawned upon the infant world ; 

And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 

To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule 

As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 

ION. 

I will not further urge thy safety to thee ; 
It may be, as thou say'st, too late ; nor seek 
To make thee shudder at the gathering curse 
Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall ; 
But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 
I know thou art my sovereign ! — sense of pain 
Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, 
And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 
Have kept their regal state ; whose heartstrings, still 
The living fibres of thy rooted power, 
Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 
From heavenly justice on them. 

ADRASTUS. 

How ! my crimes ? 

ION. 

Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is, 
Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 
A poor man's privilege to bear alone, 



scene i.] TON ; A TRAGEDY. 

Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen, 

The penalties of evil, for in thine 

A nation's fate lies circled. — King Adrastus ! 

Steel'd as thy heart is with the usages 

Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 

Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 

Oh, if maternal love embraced thee then, 

Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 

Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thou shared 

The glow of a first friendship, which is born 

'Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 

Smitten amidst its playthings ; — let the spirit 

Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity ! 

ADRASTUS. 

In every word thou dost but steel my soul. 
My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin — 
All that should people infancy with joy — 
Conspired to poison mine ; despoil'd my life 
Of innocence and hope — all but the sword 
And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now ? 

ION. 

I knew that we should pity — - 

ADRASTUS. 

Pity ! dare 
To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 

ION. 

If thou hast ever loved — 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act 11. 

ADRASTUS. 

Beware ! beware ! 



Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 

And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 

When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 

Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy, 

As if some unseen visitant from heaven 

Touch'd the calm lake and wreath 'd its images 

In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 

That on the margin of assurance trembled, 

As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd 

Its happy being ; — taste in thought again 

Of the stolen sweetness of those evening- walks, 

When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 

And circling forests, by ethereal touch 

Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 

As if about to melt in golden light 

Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart, 

Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 

Grew bountiful to all ! 

ADRASTUS. 

That tone ! that tone ! 
Whence came it ? from thy lips ? It cannot be — 
The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
That ever spake unbought affection to me, 
And waked my soul to blessing ! — sweet hours 
Of golden joy, ye come ! your glories break 
Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds ! 
Roll on ! roll on ! — Stranger, thou dost enforce me 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

To speak of things unbreathed by lip of mine 
To human ear : — wilt listen ? 



ION. 

As a child. 

ADRASTUS. 

Again ! — that voice again ! — thou hast seen me moved 

As never mortal saw me, by a tone 

Which some light breeze, enamour 'd of the sound, 

Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 

Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth 

This city, which, expectant of its prince, 

Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstacies ; 

Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 

Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, 

And welcome thunder'd from a thousand throats, 

My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space, 

In the dark chamber where my mother lay, 

Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, 

Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words 

Of me the nurseling — " Woe unto the babe ! 

" Against the life which now begins shall life, 

" Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon quench 'd, 

" End this great line in sorrow ! " — Ere I grew 

Of years to know myself a thing accurs'd, 

A second son was born, to steal the love 

Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became 

My parents' hope, the darling of the crew 

Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 

To trace in every foible of my youth — 

A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse ; 



48 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

My very mother — Jove ! I cannot bear 

To speak it now — look'd freezingly upon me ! 

ION. 

But thy brother— 

ADRASTUS. 

Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
The common lie that every peasant tells 
Of me his master, — that I slew the boy. 
'Tis false ! One summer's eve, below a crag 
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 
Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs 
To brand me as his murderer. 



Did they dare 
Accuse thee ? 



Not in open speech : — they felt 
I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
And crush'd the lie half-spoken with the life 
Of the base speaker : — but the tale look'd out 
From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank 
When mine have met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game, 
Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul 
When I beheld it in my father's shudder ! 

ION. 

Didst not declare thy innocence ? 



scene i.] ION; A TKAGEDY. 

ADRASTUS. 

To whom ? 
To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
Who should have studied to prevent my wish 
Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice 
To service as a prize to wrestle for ; 
And whose reluctant courtesy I bore, 
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress 'd 
The blood has started ! To the common herd, 
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 
Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 
A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it, 
Or, deck'd for slaughter at their master's call, 
To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd 
In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? 
Answer to them ? No ! though my heart had burst, 
As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 
I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 
My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 
In search of weariness, and learn 'd to rive 
Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung- 
Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 
Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 
Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 
Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 
Which plummet never sounded ; — but in vain. 

ION. 

Yet succour came to thee ? 

ADRASTUS. 

A blessed one ! 

E 



50 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 

And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps 

Were in a wood-encircled valley stay'd 

By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 

Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd 

In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd 

Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. 

With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 

The body of her aged sire, whose death 

Left her alone. I aided her sad work, 

And soon two lonely ones by holy rites 

Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 

In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us 

In our delightful nest. My father's spies — 

Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes 

Or the swift falchion — track'd our sylvan home 

Just as my bosom knew its second joy, 

And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 

ION. 

Urged by thy trembling parents to avert 
That dreadful prophecy ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Fools ! did they deem 
Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
A thousand ecstasies of passion'd years, 
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it, 
I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 51 

And pardon destiny ! While jocund smiles 
Wreathed on the infant's face, as if good spirits 
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, 
The ruffians broke upon us ; seized the child ; 
Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 
'Neath which the deep sea eddies ; I stood still 
As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe, 
Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
And could not stir to save him ! 

ION. 

And the mother — 

ADRASTUS. 

She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms, 
And then laid down to die. A lingering gaze 
Of love she fix'd on me — none other loved, 
And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look ! 
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face ! 
She lives again ! She looks upon me now ! 
There's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish. 

Enter Crythes and Guards. 

ADRASTUS. 

Why art thou here ? 

CRYTHES. 

The dial points the hour. 

ADRASTUS. 

Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ? 
Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 

CRYTHES. 

Scarce half an hour 
Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 

e2 



52 ION ; A TKAGEDY. [act ii. 

ADRASTUS. 

Scarce half an hour! — years — years have roll'd since then. 
Begone ! remove that pageantry of death — 
It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair 
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band 
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain. 
Hence ! without a word. {Exit ceythes. 

What wouldst thou have me do ? 



Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language ; 
Convene thy sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ; 
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
And, whatsoe'er the sacrifice, perform it. 

ADRASTUS. 

Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
Go summon them, young hero : hold ! no word 
Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here. 

ION. 

Distrust me not. — Propitious gods, I bless you ! 

[Exit. 
ADRASTUS. 

Yet stay — he's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
What have I promised him ? To meet the men 
Who from my living head would strip the crown, 
And sit in judgment on me ? — I must do it — 
Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 
The course of liberal speech, and if it rise 
So as too loudly to offend mine ear, 
Strike the rash brawler dead ! ; — What idle dream 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 53 

Of long-past days had melted me ? It fades — 
It vanishes — I am again a king ! 



Scene II. — The Interior of the Temple. 
Same as Act i. Scene i. 

Clemanthe seated — Habra attending her. 

HABEA. 

Look, dearest lady ! — the thin smoke aspires 
In the calm air, as when in happier times 
It show'd the gods propitious : wilt thou seek 
Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends, 
Returning, find us hinderers of their council ? 
She answers not — she hearkens not — with joy 
Could I believe her, for the first time sullen ! 
Still she is rapt. 

Enter Agenor. 
O speak to my sweet mistress ; 
Haply thy voice may rouse her. 

AGENOE. 

Dear Clemanthe, 
Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall taste 
Old household joys again. 

Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others. 

MEDON. 

Clemanthe here ! 
How sad ! how pale ! 

HABEA. 

Her eye is kindling — hush ! 



54 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

ernes-. 
Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ? 

MEDON. 

No. 
Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 

CLEO*. 

Yes ! — now 'tis lost — 'tis on that endless stair — 
Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
He lives ! he comes ! 

[Clemanthe rises and rushes to the bach of the stage, at which Ion 
appears, and returns with her. 

Here is your messenger, 
Whom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage 
Ye sent him forth to brave. Rejoice, old men, 
That ye are guiltless of his blood ! — why pause ye ? 
Why shout ye not his welcome ? 

MEDON. 

Dearest girl, 
This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber ; 

I'll COme tO thee ere long. [Exeunt Clemanthe gewcZHabka. 

She is o'erwrought 
By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
Were mingled with her own, even as a brother's. 

TIMOCLES. 

Ion! 
How shall we do thee honour ? 

ION. 

None is due 
Save to the gods whose gracious influence sways 
The king ye deem'd relentless ; — he consents 
To meet ye presently in council : — speed ! 






scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 55 

This may be virtue's latest rally in him, 

In fitful strength, ere it be quench 'd for ever ! 



Haste to your seats ; I will but speak a word 
With our brave friend, and follow : though convened 
In speed, let our assembly lack no forms 
Of due observance, which to furious power 
Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 

[Exeunt all but Medon and Ion. 

Ion, draw near me ; this eventful day 
Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 
With firmness which accomplishes the hero ; — 
And it would bring to me but one proud thought — 
That virtues which required not culture's aid 
Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there 
Found shelter ; — but it also hath reveal'd 
What I may not hide from thee, that my child, 
My blithe and innocent girl— more fair in soul, 
More delicate in fancy than in mould — 
Loves thee with other than a sister's love. 
I should have cared for this : I vainly deem'd 
A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 
And household memories had nurtured friendship 
Which might hold peaceful empire in the soul ; 
But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in, 
And the fair citadel is thine. 

ION. 

'Tis true. 
I did not think the nurseling of thy house 
Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty 
With tale of selfish passion ; — but we met 



56 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

As playmates -who might never meet again, 
And then the hidden truth nash'd forth, and show'd 
To each the image in the other's soul 
In one bright instant. 

MEDON. 

Be that instant blest ! 

Enter Ctesiphon. 
med ox. 
Art come to chide me to the council ? 

CTESIPHON. 

No; 
To bring unwonted joy ; thy son approaches. 

MEDOX. 

Thank Heaven ! Hast spoken with him ? Is he well ? 

CTESIPHON. 

I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd, 
Roused from the untended couch and dismal hearth 
By the strange visiting of hope, press'd round him ; 
But, by his head erect and fiery glance, 
I know that he is well, and that he bears 
A message which shall shake the tyrant. [Shouts.] See ! 
The throng is tending this way — now it parts, 
And yields him to thy arms. 

Enter Phociox. 

MEDON. 

Welcome, my Phocion — 
Hast brought the answer of the god ? 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 57 

PHOCION. 

I have : 
Now let Adrastus tremble ! 

MEDON. 

May we hear it ? 

PHOCION. 

I am sworn first to utter it to him. 

CTESIPHON. 

But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 

PHOCION. 

Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before. 
How fares thy father ? 

ion (to Phocion). 

Do not speak of him. 
ctesiphon (overhearing Ion). 
Not speak of him ! Dost think there is a moment 
When common things eclipse the burning thought 
Of him and vengeance ? 

PHOCION. 

Has the tyrant's sword — 

CTESIPHON. 

No, Phocion ; that were merciful and brave, 

Compared to his base deed ; yet will I tell it 

To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, 

And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings. 

The last time that Adrastus dared to face 

The sages of the state, although my father, 

Yielding to nature's mild decay, had left 

All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength, 



58 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act h. 

In his old seat, to speak one -word of warning. 

Thou know'st how bland with years his wisdom grew, 

And how with language, steep 'd in love, he sheathed 

The sharpness of rebuke ; yet, ere his speech 

Was closed, the tyrant started from his throne, 

And with his base hand smote him ; 'twas his death-stroke ; 

The old man totter'd home, and only once 

Raised his head after ! 

PHOCION. 

Thou wert absent ? Yes ! 
The heartless tyrant lives ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Had I beheld 
That sacrilege, Adrastus had lain dead, 
Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
But I was far away : when I return'd, 
I found my father on the nearest bench 
Within our door, his thinly silver'd head 
Supported by wan hands, which hid his face 
And would not be withdrawn ; — no groan, no sigh 
Was audible, and we could only learn 
By short convulsive tremblings of his frame 
That life still flicker'd in it — yet at last, 
By some unearthly inspiration roused, 
He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect 
As in his manhood's glory — the free blood 
Flush'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow'd brow 
Expanded clear, and his eyes opening full 
Gleam 'd with a youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 
Upon my knees before him — still he spake not, 
But slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench 'd 



scene ii,1 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

His hand as if it grasp 'd an airy knife, 

And struck in air : my hand was joined with his 

In nervous grasp — my lifted eye met his 

In steadfast gaze — my pressure answer'd his — 

We knew at once each other's thought ; a smile 

Of the old sweetness play'd upon his lips, 

And life forsook him. Weaponless I flew 

To seek the tyrant, and was driven with scoffs 

From the proud gates which shelter him. He lives— 

And I am here to babble of revenge ! 

PHOCTON. 

It comes, my friend — attend me to the king ! 



Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his council ; 
There let us seek him : should ye find him touch 'd 
With penitence, as happily ye may, 
give allowance to his soften 'd nature ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Show grace to him ! — Dost dare ? — I had forgot, 
Thou dost not know how a son loves a father ! 



I know enough to feel for thee ; I know 

Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny 

In its worst frenzy can inflict ; — yet think, 

think ! before the irrevocable deed 

Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 

Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 

Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 

Who forty summers since hung at the breast 



60 ION ; A TBAGEDY. [act ii. 

A playful weakling ; whom the heat unnerves ; 

The north wind pierces ; and the hand of death 

Will, in a moment, change to clay as vile 

As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs ? 

No ! 'tis our weakness gasping for the shows 

Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 

And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 

Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 

Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 

For long duration by a line of kings : 

If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade 

All unsubstantial as the regal hues 

Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 

Must clothe a living image with their pomp, 

And wreathe a diadem around its brow, 

In which our sunny fantasies may live 

EmpeaiTd, and gleam, in fatal splendour, far 

On after ages. We must look within 

For that which makes us slaves : — on sympathies 

Which find no kindred objects in the plain 

Of common life — affections that aspire 

In air too thin — and fancy's dewy film 

Floating for rest ; for even such delicate threads, 

Gather'd by Fate s engrossing hand, supply 

The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond 

Of cable strength in which our nature struggles ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Go talk to others, if thou wilt ; — to me 
All argument, save that of steel, is idle. 

MEDON. 

No more : — let's seek the council — there, my son, 



scexe in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 61 

Tell thy great message nobly ; — and for thee, 

Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are just ! [Exeunt. 



Scene III. — The great Square of the City. Adbastus seated on 
a throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, seated as 
Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a distance. 

ADRASTUS. 

Upon your summons, Sages, I am here ; 

Your king attends to know your pleasure ; speak it 

AGENOR. 

And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within thee 

Receives no impress of this awful time, 

Art thou of sense forsaken ? Are thine ears 

So charm'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy, 

That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 

Pass them unheard to Heaven ? Or are thine eyes 

So conversant with prodigies of grief, 

They cease to dazzle at them ? Art thou arm'd 

'Gainst wonder, while, in all things, nature turns 

To dreadful contraries ; — while youth's full cheek 

Is shrivell'd into furrows of sad years, 

And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care 

Looks out a keen anatomy ; — while age 

Is stung by feverish torture for an hour 

Into youth's strength ; while fragile womanhood 

Starts into frightful courage, all unlike 

The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 

To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 

Abroad, a tearless and unshuddering thing ; — 

While childhood, in its orphan'd freedom blithe, 



62 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

Finds, in its shapes of wretchedness which seem 

Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause 

For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd 

In never-broken silence ; and while love, 

Immortal through all change, makes ghastly death 

Its idol, and with furious passion digs 

Amid sepulchral images for gauds 

To cheat its fancy with ? — Do sights like these 

Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 

And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure?" 

ADRASTUS. 

Cease, babbler; — wherefore would you stun my ears 

With vain recital of the griefs I know, 

And cannot heal ? — will treason turn aside 

The shaft of death, or soften nature's ills ? 

I have no skill to heal the sick, nor power 

To sway the elements. 

AGENOR. 

Thou hast the power 
To cast thyself upon the earth with us 
In penitential shame ; or, if this power 
Has left a heart made weak by luxury 
And hard by pride, thou hast at least the power 
To spare the mockery of thy frantic revels. 

ADRASTUS. 

I have yet power to punish insult — look 
I use it not, Agenor ! — Fate may dash 
My sceptre from me, but shall not command 
My will to hold it with a feebler grasp ; 
Nay, if few hours of empire yet are mine, 



scenk in.] ION; A TKAGEDY. 

They shall be colour'd with a sterner pride, 

And peopled with more lustrous joys, than flush'd 

In the serene procession of its greatness, 

Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 

Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine 

That clasp'd the mountain- summit with a root 

As firm as its rough marble, and, apart 

From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 

Lifted its head, as in delight, to share 

The evening glories of the sky, and taste 

The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze 

That no ignoble vapour from the vale 

Could mingle with — smit by the flaming marl, 

And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 

One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with fire 

Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, 

Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs, 

That young ambition's airy fancies made 

Their giddy nest, leap'd sportive ; — never clad 

By liberal summer in a pomp so rich 

As waited on its downfall, while it took 

The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain 

To gird its splendours round, and made the blast 

Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds 

Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths 

Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 

So shall the royalty of Argos pass 

In festal blaze to darkness ! Have ye spoken ? 

AGENOR. 

I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove, look down ! 

[Shouting without. 



64 ION ; A TEAGEDY. [ ACT ir. 

ADRASTUS. 

What factious brawl is this ? — Disperse it, soldiers. 

[Shouting renewed— As some of the Soldiers are about to march, Phocion 
rushes in, followed by Ctesiphon, Ion, and Medon. 

Whence is this insolent intrusion ? 

PHOCION. 

King! 
I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 

ADRASTUS. 

Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty '? 
Here we had school'd thee better. 

PHOCION. 

Kneel to thee ! 

MEDON". 

Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 

PHOCION. 

Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, Adrastus, 

That I have studied in a nobler school 

Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry 

Or the lewd guard-room ; o'er which ancient heaven 

Extends its arch for all, and mocks the span 

Of palaces and dungeons ; where the heart 

In its free beatings, 'neath the coarsest vest, 

Claims kindred with diviner things than power 

Of kings can raise or stifle — in the school 

Of mighty nature — where I learn'd to blush 

At sight like this, of thousands basely hush'd 

Before a man no mightier than themselves, 

Save in the absence of that love that softens. 

ADRASTUS. 

Peace ! speak thy message. 



scene in.] ION; A TEAGEDY. ( 

PHOCION. 

Shall I tell it here ? 
Or shall I seek thy couch at dead of night, 
And breathe it in low whisper ? — As thou wilt. 

ADRASTUS. 

Here — and this instant ! 

PHOCION. 

Hearken then, Adrastus, 
And hearken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks : — 

{Heads a scroll. 
" Argos ne'er shall find release 
Till her monarch's race shall cease.' 

ADRASTUS. 

Tis not God's will, but man's sedition speaks : — 
Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
And bear him to the palace. 

MEDON. 

Touch him not, — 
He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 
Were never stain'd with falsehood. 

PHOCION. 

Come on, all ! 

AGENOR. 

Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Soldiers, charge 
Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 

[The soldiers advance and surround the people ; they seize Phocion. 
Ion rushes from the back of the stage, and throws himself betiveen 
Adeastus and Phocion. 

phocion {to Adrastus). 
Yet I defy thee. 



66 ION ; A TKAGEDY. [act ii. 

ION (to Phocion). 

Friend ! for sake of all, 
Enrage him not — wait while I speak a word — 
[To Adrastus] My sovereign, I implore thee, do not stain 
This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 
I do conjure thee — and in hers, whose shade 
Is mourning for thee now ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Release the stripling — 
He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 



Nay, hold an instant ! — let my speech have power 

From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 

The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it ; 

If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp, 

And in seclusion purify thy soul 

Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods 

May give thee space for penitential thoughts ; 

If not — as surely as thou standest here, 

Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood — 

The vision presses on me now. 

ADRASTUS. 

Art mad ? 
Resign my state ? Sue to the gods for life, 
The common life which every slave endures, 
And meanly clings to ? No ; within yon walls 
I shall resume the banquet, never more 
Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, 
Farewell ! — go mutter treason till ye perish ! 

[Exeunt Adeastus, Cbythes, and Soldiers. 



scene in.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. < 

ion {who stands apart leaning on a 'pedestal). 
'Tis seal'd ! 

MEDON. 

Let us withdraw, and strive 
By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! 

[Medon, Agenor, and Councillors, retire : they leave Ctesiphon, 
Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands apart as rapt in meditation. 

CTESIPHON. 

'Tis well : the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
Where shall we meet at sunset ? 



In the grove, 
Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale, 
Between those buttresses of rock that guard 
The sacred mountain on its western side, 
Stands a rude altar — overgrown with moss, 
And stain'd with drippings of a million showers, 
So old, that no tradition names the power 
That hallow'd it, — which we will consecrate 
Anew to freedom and to justice. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thither 
Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 

To yon rapt youth ? [Pointing to Ion. 

phocion. 
His nature is too gentle. 
At sunset we will meet. — With arms ? 

CTESIPHON. 

A knife — 
One sacrificial knife will serve. 

f2 






68 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act ii. 

PHOCION. 

At sunset ! 

[Exeunt Ctesiphon and Phocion severally. Ion comes forward. 
ION. 

wretched King, thy words have seal'd thy doom ! 
Why should I shiver at it, when no way, 

Save this, remains to break the ponderous cloud 
That hangs above my wretched country ? — death — 
A single death, the common lot of all, 
Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 
And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me ; 

1 cannot shut it out ; my thoughts grow rigid, 
And as one grim and prostrate figure haunts them, 
My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion ! 

No spectral form is here ; all outward things 

Wear their own old familiar looks : no dye 

Pollutes them. Yet the air has scent of blood, 

And now it eddies with a hurtling sound, 

As if some weapon swiftly clove it. No — 

The falchion's course is silent as the grave 

That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers, 

If the great duty of my life be near, 

Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! {Exit. 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 



ACT III. 

Scene I. — A Terrace of the Temple. 

Clemanthe, Ion. 
clemanthe. 
Nay, I must chide this sorrow from thy brow, 
Or 'twill rebuke my happiness ; — I know 
Too well the miseries that hem us round ; 
And yet the inward sunshine of my soul, 
Unclouded by their melancholy shadows, 
Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image — 
One only image, which no outward storm 
Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then, 
From this vain pondering o'er the general grief, 
Which makes my joy look guilty. 

ION. 

No, my fair one, 
The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd 
By generous sense of others' woe : too sure 
It rises from dark presages within, 
And will not leave me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Then it is most groundless ! 
Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing 
By constancy, the fame of which shall live 
While a heart beats in Argos? — hast thou not 



70 ION ; A TKAGEDY. [act hi. 

Upon one agitated bosom pour'd 
Delicious peace ? and can thy generous nature, 
While it thus sheds felicity around it, 
Eemain itself unbless'd ? 



ION. 

I strove awhile 
To think the assured possession of thy love 
With too divine a burthen weigh'd my heart 
And press 'd my spirits down ; — but 'tis not so ; 
Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee, 
By feigning that my sadness has a cause 
So exquisite. Clemanthe ! thou wilt find me 
A sad companion ; — I who knew not life, 
Save as the sportive breath of happiness, 
Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise, 
With grave experiences ; I dream no more 
Of azure realms where restless beauty sports 
In myriad shapes fantastic ; dismal vaults 
In black succession open, till the gloom 
Afar is broken by a streak of fire 
That shapes my name — the fearful wind that moans 
Before the storm articulates its sound ; 
And as I pass'd, but now, the solemn range 
Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery 
Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 
Bent on me instinct with a frightful life 
That drew me into fellowship with them, 
As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips — 
Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 
And, as I live to tell thee, murmur 'd " Hail ! 
Hail ! Ion the Devoted ! " 



scene i.] ION ; A TEAGEDY. 

CLEMANTHE. 

These are fancies, 
Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, 
Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle 
In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud 
The cells of fragrance cluster. Cast them from thee, 
And strive to be thyself. 

ION. 

I will do so ! 
I'll gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink 
Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — 
My pulse throbs now as it was wont ; — a being, 
Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
Cannot show darkly. 

CLEMANTHE. 

We shall soon be blessed ; 
My father will rejoice to own our love, 
And Argos brighten ; — for her tyrant's course 
Must have a speedy end. 

ION. 

It must ! It must ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Yes ; for no empty talk of public wrongs 
Assails him now ; keen hatred and revenge 
Are roused to crush him. 

ION. 

Not by such base agents 
May the august lustration be achieved : 
He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt 
For which Heaven smites it, should be pure of soul, 



72 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act iii. 

Guileless as infancy, and un disturb 'd 

By personal anger as thy father is, 

When, with unswerving hand and piteous eye, 

He stops the brief life of the innocent lamb 

Bound with white fillets to the altar ; — so 

Enwreathed by fate the royal victim heaves, 

And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife 

Of the selected slayer ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

'Tis thyself 
Whom thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou — 

ION. 

She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out 
What all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark 
Me for the office of avenger — me ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

Xo ; — save from the wild picture that thy fancy — 
Thy o'erwrought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd 
Too like thee, and I shudder'd. 

ION. 

So do I ! 
And yet I sometimes wish I shudder'd more, 
For the dire thought has grown familiar with me — 
Could I escape it ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

'Twill away in sleep. 

ION. 

No, no ! I dare not sleep — for well I know 

That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, 



scene i.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 73 

The form will stiffen ! — I will walk awhile 
In the soft evening light, and try to chase 
These fearful images away. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Let me 
Go with thee. 0, how often hand in hand 
In such a lovely night have we roam'd westward 
Aimless and blessed, when we were no more 
Than playmates : — surely we are not grown stranger 
Since yesterday ! 

ION. 

No, dearest, not to-night : 
The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale, 
And I am placed in grave commission here 
To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass ; 
I will be merrier when we meet again, — 
Trust me my love, I will ; farewell ! [Exit ion. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Farewell then ! 
How fearful disproportion shows in one 
Whose life hath been all harmony ! He bends 
Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour 
My father found him, which has ever been 
His chosen place of musing. Shall I follow ? 
Am I already grown a selfish mistress, 
To watch his solitude with jealous eye, 
And claim him all ? — That let me never be — 
Yet danger from within besets him now, 
Known to me only — I will follow him ! [Exit. 



74 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 



Scene II. — As opening in a deep wood — in front an old 
grey altar. 

Enter Ion. 



winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades 

Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent 

So often when by musing fancy sway'd, 

That craved alliance with no wider scene 

Than your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased 

To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, 

And, on the pictured mellowness of age 

Idly reflective, image my return 

From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam 

With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, 

And melt the busy past to a sweet dream 

As then the future was ; — why should ye now 

Echo my steps with melancholy sound 

As ye were conscious of a guilty presence ? 

The lovely light of eve, that, as it waned, 

Touch 'd ye with softer, homelier look, now fades 

In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted roots 

Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 

My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible, 

As if about to start to serpent life, 

And hiss around me ; — whither shall I turn ? — 

Where fly ? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 

Where human love instructed by divine 

Found and embraced me first; I'll cast me down 

Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, 

In hope to feel myself again a child. [Jon goes into the wood. 






scene ii.] ION ; A TEAGEDY. 75 

Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and other Argive youths. 

CTESIPHON. 

This is the spot which Phocion chose for meeting ; 
The twilight deepens, jet he does not come. 
0, if, instead of idle dreams of freedom, 
He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
He would not linger thus ! 

CASSANDER. 

The sun's broad disk 
Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, 
Sank 'neath the leaden wave ; but night steals on 
With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts 
Are eager as the favouring darkness. 

Enter Phocion. 

CTESIPHON. 

Welcome ! 
Thou know'st all here. 

PHOCION. 

Yes ; I rejoice, Cassander, 
To find thee my companion in a deed 
Worthy the noblest thought we shar'd in childhood, 
When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave 
In visionary peril. Ctesiphon, 
We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 

CTESIPHON. 

I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier, 
Who in his reckless boyhood was my comrade, 
And though by taste of luxury subdued 
Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns 
With generous anger to avenge that grief 



76 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

I bear above all others. He has made 
The retribution sure. From him I learnt 
That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court, 
He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe 
Of passion ; then call'd eagerly for wine, 
And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, 
And snatch, like him, a day from fortune. Soon, 
As one worn out by watching and excess, 
He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies 
Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers, 
Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad 
Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through the courts 
Unarm 'd and cautionless. The eastern portal 
Is at this moment open ; by that gate 
We all may enter unperceived, and line 
The passages which gird the royal chamber, 
While one blest hand accomplish the award 
Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, 
But that as all would share this action's glory, 
We join in one great vow, and choose one arm 
Our common minister. Oh, if these sorrows 
Confer on me the office to return 
Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow 
Which crush'd my father's spirit, I will leave 
To him who cares for toys the patriot's laurel 
And the applause of ages ! 

PHOCION. 

Let the gods 
By the old course of lot reveal the name 
Of the predestined champion. For myself, 
Here do I solemnly devote all powers 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Of soul and body to that glorious purpose 
We live but to fulfil. 

CTESIPHON 

And I ! 

CASSANDER. 

And I ! 

ion (who has advanced from the wood, rushes to the altar 
and exclaims) 

And I ! 

PHOCION. 

Most welcome ! The serenest powers of justice, 
In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
Our bloody councils, sanctify and bless them ! 

ION. 

The gods have prompted me, for they have given 
One dreadful voice to all things which should be 
Else dumb or musical : and I rejoice 
To step from the grim round of waking dreams 
Into this fellowship which makes all clear. 
Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Yes ; but we waste 
The precious minutes in vain talk ; if lots 
Must guide us, have ye scrolls 



9 



Cassander has them 
The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander 

CTESIPHON. 

I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet 



78 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
The names of his avengers ! 

[Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it to Cassander, who 
retires with it. 

phocion (to Ctesiphon). 

He whose name 
Thou shalt draw first, shall fill the post of glory. 
Were it not also well, the second name 
Should designate another charged to take 
The same great office, if the first should leave 
His work imperfect ? 

CTESIPHON. 

There can scarce be need ; 
Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine ! 
I will leave little for a second arm. 

[Cassander returns with the helmet. 

CTESIPHON. 
NOW, gods, decide ! [Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet. 

PHOCION. 

The name ? Why dost thou pause ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Tis Ion ! 

ION. 

Well I knew it would be mine ! 

[Ctesiphon draws another lot. 
CTESIPHON. 

Phocion ! 'twill be thy part to strike him dead 
If he should prove faint-hearted. 

PHOCION. 

With my life 
I'll answer for his constancy. 



scene n.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 79 

ctesiphon (to Ion). 

Thy hand ! 
'Tis cold as death. 

ION. 

Yes ; but it is as firm. 
What ceremony next ? 

[Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar and gives him a knife. 
CTESIPHON. 

Receive this steel, 
For ages dedicate in my sad home 
To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly, 
And consecrate it to untrembling service 
Against the King of Argos and his race. 

ION. 

His race ! Is he not left alone on earth ? 
He has no brother, and no child. 

CTESIPHON. 

Such words 
The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 



There were old rumours of an infant born 
And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
Half-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing. 
And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it 
One of the thousand guilty histories, 
Which, if the walls of palaces could speak, 
Would show that, nursed by prideful luxury, 
To pamper which the virtuous peasant toils, 
Crimes go unpunish'd, which the pirates' cave, 
Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which justice 



SO ION; A TRAGEDY. [act in, 

Keeps for unlicensed guilt, would startle at ! 
We must root out the stock, that no stray scion 
Renew the tree, whose branches, stifling virtue, 
Shed poison-dews on life. 



ion (approaches the altar, and lifting up the knife 
Ye eldest gods, 
Who in no statues of exactest form 
Are palpable ; who shun the azure heights 
Of beautiful Olympus, and the sound 
Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy ; 
Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held 
Over dim chaos, keep revengeful wrath 
On falling nations, and on kingly lines 
About to sink for ever : ye, who shed 
Into the passions of earth's giant brood 
And their fierce usages the sense of justice ; 
Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 
With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 
Through the proud halls of time-embolden'd guilt 
Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence, 
For now I feel ye nigh, — I dedicate 
This arm to the destruction of the king 
And of his race ; keep me pitiless : 
Expel all human weakness from my frame, 
That this keen weapon shake not when his heart 
Should feel its point ; and if he has a child 
Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice 
My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 
Was not that thunder ? 

CTESIPHON. 

No ; I heard no sound. 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 81 

Now mark me, Ion ! thou shalt straight be led 

To the king's chamber : we shall be at hand ; 

Nothing can give thee pause. Hold ! one should watch 

The city's eastern portal, lest the troops, 

Returning from the work of plunder home, 

Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. [To phocion. 

phocion. 
I am to second Ion if he fail. 

CTESIPHON. 

He cannot fail ; — I shall be nigh. What, Ion ? 

ION. 

Who spake to me ? Where am I ? Friends, your pardon ; 
I am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, 
One little moment, to be left alone. 

CTESIPHON. 

Be brief then, or the season of revenge 

Will pass. At yonder thicket we'll expect thee. 

[Exeunt all but Ion. 
ION. 

Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot 
Is palpable, and mortals gird me round, 
Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. 
Some one approaches — I must hide this knife — 
Hide ! I have ne'er till now had aught to hide 

From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his vest. 

Enter Clemanthe. 

Clemanthe here ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Forgive me that I break upon thee thus : 






82 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

I meant to watch thy steps unseen ; but night 
Is thickening ; thou art haunted by sad fancies, 
And 'tis more terrible to think upon thee 
Wandering with such companions in thy bosom, 
Than in the peril thou art wont to seek 
Beside the bed of death. 



Death, say'st thou ? Death ? 
Is it not righteous when the gods decree it ? 
And brief its sharpest agony ? Yet, fairest, 
It is no theme for thee. Go in at once, 
And think of it no more. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Not without thee. 
Indeed thou art not well ; thy hands are marble ; 
Thine eyes are fix'd ; let me support thee, love : — 
Ha ! what is that gleaming within thy vest ? 
A knife ! Tell me its purpose, Ion ! 

ION. 

No; 
My oath forbids. 

CLEMANTHE. 

An oath ! O gentle Ion, 
What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs 
A stronger cement than a good man's word ? 
There's danger near thee. Wilt thou keep it from me ! 

ION. 

Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon — 

[Voices call, Ion ! 

Hark ! I am call'd. 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 83 

CLEMANTHE. 

Nay, do not leave me thus. 

ION. 

Tis very sad [voices again] — I dare not stay — farewell ! 

[Exit. 
CLEMANTHE. 

It must be to Adrastus that he flies ! 

If by his hand the fated tyrant die, 

Austere remembrance of the deed will hang 

Upon his delicate spirit like a cloud, 

Arid tinge its world of happy images 

With hues of horror. Shall I seek the palace, 

And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 

His safety ? No ! — 'Tis never woman's part 

Out of her fond misgivings to perplex 

The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 

"lis hers to weave all that she has of fair 

And bright in the dark meshes of their web 

Inseparate from their folds. My wayward heart 

Has found its refuge in a hero's love, 

Whatever destiny his generous soul 

Shape for him ; — 'tis its duty to be still 

And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit. 



Scene III. — A Chamber in the Temple. 

Enter Medon, followed by Habra. 
medon. 
My daughter not within the temple, say'st thou ? 
Abroad at such an hour ? Speak ! Did not Phocion 

g 2 



84 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act hi. 

Or Ion bear her company ? 'twas Ion — 
Confess — was it not he '? I shall not chide. 

HABKA. 

She went alone, but Ion just before 
Had taken the same path. 

MEDON. 

She went to meet him. 
I would they were return 'd ; the night is grown 
Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes — 
Look if it be my daughter. 

HAJBKA (looking out). 

No ; young Irus, 
The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
Agenor, with so gracious a respect, 
This morning told us. 

MEDON. 

Let him come ; he bears 
Some message from his master. 

Enter Irus. 
medon (to Irus). 

Thou art pale : 
Has any evil happen'd to Agenor ? 

IRUS. 

No, my good lord ; I do not come from him ; 

I bear to thee a scroll from one who now 

Is number'd with the dead; he was my kinsman, 

But I had never seen him till he lay 

Upon his death-bed ; for he left these shores 

Long before I was born, and no one knew 



scene in.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

His place of exile ; — on this mournful day 
He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. 
My gentle master gave me leave to tend 
His mortal sickness ; when his end drew nigh 
He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand, 
That seem'd to gather firmness from its task, 
Wrote earnestly; conjured me take the scroll 
Instant to thee ; and died. [irus gives a scroll to medon. 

medon {reading the scroll). 

These are great tidings. 
Habra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
To tell her all. 

Enter Clemanthe. 

Sit down, my pensive child. 
Habra, this boy is faint ; see him refresh'd 
With food and wine before thou lett'st him pass. 



I have too long been absent from Agenor, 
Who needs my slender help. 

MEDON. 

I must employ 
Thy master's power for once, to use it so 
As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Habra, 
Till he has done my bidding. [Exeunt habra and ieus. 

Now, Clemanthe, 
Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel, 
I will not be too strict in my award, 
By keeping from thee news of one to thee 
Most dear — nay, do not blush — I say most dear. 



86 ION ; A TKAGEDY. [act hi. 

CLEMANTHE. 

It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush, 

But tremble. my father, what of Ion ? 

MEDON. 

How often have we guess'd his lineage noble ! 
And now 'tis proved. The kinsman of that youth 
Was with another hired to murder him 
A babe ; — they tore him from his mother's breast, 
And to a sea-girt summit where a rock 
O'erhung a chasm, by the surge's force 
Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods 
In mercy order 'd it, the foremost ruffian, 
Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom 
In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose, 
Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag 
Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed, 
And suddenly fell with it ; — with his fall 
Sank the base daring of the man who held 
The infant ; so he placed the unconscious babe 
Upon the spot where it was found by me ; 
Watch'd till he saw the infant safe ; then fled, 
Fearful of question ; and return 'd to die. 
That child is Ion. Whom dost guess his sire ? — 
The first in Argos. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Dost thou mean Adrastus ? 
He cannot — must not — be that tyrants son ! 

MEDOK 

It is most certain. Wherefore dost thou change ? 
He hath no touch of his rash father's pride ; 



scene in.] ION; A TEAGEDY. 

For nature, from whose genial lap be smiled 
Upon us first, hath moulded him her own 
With happiest nurture. 6 

CLEMANTHE. 

While we talk he stains 
His soul with parricide. 

MEDON. 

Impossible ! 
Ion, the gentlest 

CLEMANTHE. 

It is true, my father ; 
I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest ; 
I heard him call'd ! 

MEDON. 

Shall I alarm the palace ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

No ; in the fierce confusion, he would fall 
Before our tale could be his safeguard. Gods ! 
Is there no hope, no refuge ? 

MEDON. 

Yes, if Heaven 
Assist us. I bethink me of a passage, 
Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal, 
That he might seek the altar of the god 
In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine 
Leads to the royal chamber. I have track'd it 
In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now, 
I yet might rescue him. 



88 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act in. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Make haste my father ! 
Shall I attend thee ? 

MEDON. 

No ; thou would st impede 
My steps ; — thou art fainting ; when I have lodged thee 

safe 
In thy own chamber, I will light the torch, 
x\nd instantly set forward. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Do not waste 
An instant's space on me ; speed, speed, my father — 
The fatal moments fly ; I need no aid ; 
Thou seest I am calm, quite calm. 

MEDON. 

The gods protect thee ! 

[Exeunt severally. 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — The Royal Chamber. Adrastus on a couch, asleep. 
Enter Ion with the Jcnife. 

ION. 

Why do I creep thus stealthily along 

With trembling steps ? Am I not arm'd by Heaven 

To execute its mandate on a king 

Whom it hath doom'd ? And shall I falter now, 

While every moment that he breathes may crush 

Some life else happy ? — Can I be deceived 

By some foul passion, crouching in my soul, 

Which takes a radiant form to lure me on ? 

Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard your voices ; 

For I dare pray ye now to nerve my arm 

And see me strike ! [He goes to the couch. 

He's smiling in his slumber, 
As if some happy thought of innocent days 
Play'd at his heart-strings : must I scare it thence 
With death's sharp agony ? He lies condemn'd 
By the high judgment of supernal Powers, 
And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus ! 
Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers ! Re- 
creants ! 
Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 



90 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

This bold intruder ? — Ha ! no weapon here ! — 
What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? [Rising. 



I am none, 
But a sad instrument in Jove's great hand 
To take thy life, long forfeited — Prepare ! 
Thy hour is come i 

ADRASTUS. 

Villains ! does no one hear ? 



Vex not the closing minutes of thy being 
With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards, 
Unmann'd by revelry, are scatter'd senseless, 
While the most valiant of our Argive youths 
Hold every passage by which human aid 
Could reach thee. Present death is the award 
Of Powers who watch above me while I stand 
To execute their sentence. 

ADRASTUS. 

Thou ! — I know thee- 
The youth I spared this morning ; in whose ear 
I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
If thou darest do it ; but bethink thee first 
How the black memory of thy thankless deed 
Will haunt thee to the grave ! 

ION. 

It is most true ; 
Thou sparedst my life, and therefore do the gods 
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall 
Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin, 



scene i.] ION; A TKAGEDY. 91 

And not the great redress of Argos. Now — 
Now, while I parley — Spirits that have left, 
Within this hour, their plague-tormented flesh 
To rot untomh'd, glide by, and frown on me, 
Their slow avenger — and the chamber swarms 
With looks of Furies — Yet a moment wait, 
Ye dreadful prompters ! — If there is a friend, 
Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token, 
Speak thy last bidding. 

ADEASTUS. 

I have none on earth. 
If thou hast courage, end me I 

ION. 

Not one friend ! 
Most piteous doom ! 

ADEASTUS. 

Art melted ? 

ION. 

If I am, 

Hope nothing from my weakness ; mortal arms, 
And eyes unseen that sleep not, gird us round, 
And we shall fall together. Be it so ! 

ADEASTUS. 

No ; strike at once ; my hour is come : in thee 

I recognise the minister of Jove, 

And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. 

[ADEASTUS 
ION. 

Avert thy face ! 

ADEASTUS. 

No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 



92 ION; A TEAGEDY. [act iv. 

For breathing pity lights thy features up 

Into more awful likeness of a form 

Which once shone on me ; and which now my sense 

Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave, 

Inviting me to the sad realm where shades 

Of innocents, whom passionate regard 

Link'd with the guilty, are content to pace 

With them the margin of the inky flood 

Mournful and calm ; — 'tis surely there ; — she waves 

Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head, 

As if to bless thee — and I bless thee too, 

Death's gracious angel ! — Do not turn away. 

TON. 

Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me ! Now ! 

[Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeling, and gazes 
stedfastly upon him. The voice of Medon is heard without, 
calling Ion ! Ion ! — Ion drops his arm. 

ADRASTUS. 

Be quick, or thou art lost ! 

[_As Ion has again raised his arm to strike, Medon rushes in behind 
Mm. 

MEDON. 

Ion, forbear ! 
Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 

[Ion stands for a moment stupified with horror, drops the knife, and 
falls senseless on the ground. 

ADRASTUS. 

What strange words 
Are these which call my senses from the death 
They were composed to welcome ? Son ! 'tis false — 
I had but one — and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 

MEDON. 

That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, 



scene I.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. ! 

One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
In wicked haste to slay; — I'll give thee proofs. 

ADR AST US. 

Great Jove, I thank thee ! — raise him gently — proofs ! 

Are there not here the lineaments of her 

Who made me happy once — the voice, now still, 

That bade the long-seal'd fount of love gush out, 

While with a prince's constancy he came 

To lay his noble life down ; and the sure, 

The dreadful proof, that he whose guileless brow 

Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me, 

Arm'd for the traitor's deed ? — It is my child ! 

[Ion reviving, sinks on one knee before Adeastus. 

ION. 
Father ! [Noise without. 

MEDON. 

The clang of arms ! 

ion (starting up). 

They come ! they come ! 
They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
Here let us fall ! 

ADRASTUS. 

I will confront them yet. 
Within I have a weapon which has drunk 
A traitor's blood ere now; — there will I wait them : 
No power less strong than death shall sever us. 

[Exeunt Adeastus and Ion as to an inner chamber. 
MEDON. 

Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 
Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 






94 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act tv. 

Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others. 

CTESIPHON. 

What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 

And Ion fled too ! — Comrades, stay this dotard, 

While I search yonder chamber. 

MEDON. 

Spare him, friends, — 
Spare him to clasp awhile his new-found son ; 
spare our Ion's father ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Father ! yes — 
That is indeed a name to bid me spare ; 

Let me but find him, gods ! \He rushes into the inner chamber. 
medon (to Cassander, and the others). 

Had ye but seen 
What I have seen, ye would have mercy on him. 

Crythes enters with Soldiers. 
Ha, soldiers ! hasten to defend your master ; 
That way — 

[As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber, Ctesiphon 
rushes from it with a bloody dagger, and stops them, 

CTESIPHON. 

It is accomplish'd ; the foul blot 
Is wiped away. Shade of my murder'd father, 
Look on thy son, and smile ! 

CRYTHES. 

Whose blood is that ? 
It cannot be the king's ! 

CTESIPHON. 

It cannot be ! 



scene i.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. 9 

Think 'st thou, foul minion of a tyrant's will, 
He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever ? 
Look there, and tremble ! 

CRYTHES. 

Wretch ! thy life shall pay 
The forfeit of this deed. 

[Crythes and Soldiers seize Ctesiphon. 
Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported by Ion. 

ADRASTUS. 

Here let me rest ; 
In this old chamber my cloom'd life began, 
And here I'll end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
To gaze upon my parting. 

CRYTHES. 

To avenge thee ; — 
Here is the traitor ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Set him free at once : 
Why do ye not obey me? Ctesiphon, 
I gave thee cause for this ; — believe me now 
That thy true steel has made thy vengeance sure ; 
And as we now stand equal, I will sue 
For a small boon — let me not see thee more. 

CTESIPHON. 
Farewell! [Exit Ctesiphon. 

adrastus (to crythes and the Soldiers). 
Why do ye tbrong death's chamber thus ? 
Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch ! 
If the commandment of a dying king 



96 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Is feeble, as a man who has embraced 
His child for the first time since infancy, 
And presently must part with him for ever, 

I do adjure ye leave US ! [Exeunt all lut Ion and Adbastus. 

ION. 

my father ! 
How is it with thee now ? 

ADEASTUS. 

Well ; very well ; — 
Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force 
Against me ; and I gaze upon my son 
With the sweet certainty that nought can part us 
Till all is quiet here. How like a dream 
Seems the succession of my regal pomps 
Since I embraced my newborn child ! To me 
The interval has been a weary one : 
How has it pass'd with thee ? 
♦ 

ION. 

But that my heart 
Has sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindred, 
I had enjoy 'd a round of happy years 
As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 

ADRASTUS. 

I bless the gods 
That they have strewn along thy humble path 
Delights unblamed ; and in this hour I seem 
As if I had lived nobly ; and I feel 
That I shall live in thee, unless that curse — 
Oh, if it should survive me ! 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 97 

ION. 

Think not of it ; 
The gods have shed such sweetness through this moment, 
That, howsoe'er they deal with me hereafter, 
I shall not deem them angry. Let me call 
For help to stanch thy wound ; thou art strong yet, 
And yet may live to bless me. 

ADRASTUS. 

Do not stir ; 
My strength is ebbing fast ; yet as it leaves me, 
The spirit of my days of blameless love 
Awakens ; and their images of joy, 
Which at thy voice started from blank oblivion, 
When thou wert strange to me, and then half-shown 
Look'd sadly through the mist of guilty years, 
Now glimmer on me in the lovely light 
Which at thy age they wore, Thou art all thy mother's, 
Her elements of gentlest virtue cast 
In mould heroical. 

ION. 

Thy speech grows fainter ; 
Can I do nothing for thee ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Yes : — my son, 
Thou art the best, the bravest of a race 
Of rightful monarch s ; thou must mount the throne 
Thy ancestors have fill'd, and by great deeds 
Efface the memory of thy fated sire, 
And win the blessing of the gods for men 
Stricken for him. Swear to me thou wilt do this, 
And I shall die forgiven ! 



98 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

ION. 

I will. 

ADRASTUS. 

Rejoice, 
Sufferers of Argos ! I am growing weak, 
And mine eyes dazzle ; let me rest my bands, 
Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head. — 
So ! So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 
As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 
About my finger ; I did image then 
Thy reign excelling mine ; it is fulfill'd, 
And I die happy. Bless thee, King of Argos ! [Dies. 

ION. 

He's dead ! and I am fatherless again. — 
King did he hail me ? Shall I make that word 
A spell to bid old happiness awake 
Throughout the lovely land that father'd me 
In my forsaken childhood ? 

[JTe sees the knife on the ground, and takes it up. 

Most vain dream ! 
This austere monitor had bid thee vanish 
Ere half-reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
Half of thy work the gods absolved thee from— 
The rest remains ! Lie there ! 

\_He conceals the knife in his vest. Shouts heard without. 

The voice of joy ! 
Is this thy funeral wailing ? my father ! 
Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
To grasp it ; — and I will embrace it nobly. 

Enter Agenor and others. 
agenor. 
Does the king live ? 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. i 

ION. 

Alas ! in me. The son 
Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 
Claims his ancestral honours. 

AGENOR. 

That high thought 
Anticipates the prayer of Argos, roused 
To sudden joy. The sages wait without 
To greet thee ; wilt confer with them to-night, 
Or wait the morning ? 

ION. 

Now. The city's state 
Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — Before the Gate of the City. 

Phocion on guard. 
phocion. 
Fool that I was to take this idle office 
At most inglorious distance from the scene 
Which shall be freedom's birth-place ; to endure 
The phantasies of danger which the soul 
Uncheer'd by action coldly dallies with 
Till it begins to shiver ! Long ere this, 
If Ion's hand be firm, the deed is past, 
And yet no shout announces that the bonds 
Of tyranny are broken. Shouts at « distance. 

Hark ! 'tis done ! 

Enter Ctesiphon. 

All hail, my brother freeman ! — art not so ? — 

h-2 
IcfC. 



100 ION ; A TEAGEDY. [act iv. 

Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain ? 
Is liberty achieved ? 

CTESIPHON. 

The king is dead ; 
This arm — I bless the righteous Furies ! — slew him. 

PHOCION. 

Did Ion quail, then ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Ion ! — clothe thy speech 
In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos, 
Accepted as the tyrant's son, and reigns. 

PHOCION. 

It cannot be ; I can believe him bom 

Of such high lineage ; yet he •will not change 

His own rich treasury of unruffled thoughts 

For all the frigid glories that invest 

The loveless state in which the monarch dwells 

A terror and a slave. 



CTESIPHON. 

Dost hear that shout ? 
Tis raised for him ! — the craven-hearted world 
Is ever eager to accept a master, 
And patriots smite for it in vain. Our soldiers, 
In the gay recklessness of men who sport 
With life as with a plaything ; citizens 
On wretched beds gaping for show ; and sages, 
Vain of a royal sophist, madly join 
In humble prayer that he would deign to tread 
Upon their necks ; and he is pleased to grant it. 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 101 

PHOCION. 

He shall not grant it ! If my life, my sense, 

My heart's affections, and my tongue's free scope 

Wait the dominion of a mortal will, 

What is the sound to rae, whether my soul 

Bears " Ion " or " Adrastus " burnt within it 

As my soul's owner ? Ion tyrant ? No ! 

Grant me a moment's pleading with his heart, 

Which has not known a selfish throb till now, 

And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him. 

CTESIPHON. 

Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven 
He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
Shivering through the death-circle of its fear, 
To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win 
Man to forego the sparkling round of power, 
When it floats airily within his grasp ! 

PHOCION. 

Why thus severe ? Our nature's common wrongs 
Affect thee not ; and that which touch'd thee nearly 
Is well avenged. 

CTESIPHON. 

Not while the son of him 
Who smote my father reigns ! I little guess'd 
Thou wouldst require a prompter to awake 
The memory of the oath so freshly sworn, 
Or of the place assign'd to thee by lot, 
Should our first champion fail to crush the race — 
Mark me ! — " the race " of him my arm has dealt with. 
Now is the time, the palace all confused, 



102 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

And Ion dizzy with strange turns of fortune, 
To do thy part. 



Have mercy on my weakness ! 
If thou hadst known this comrade of my sports, 
One of the same small household whom his mirth 
Unfailing gladden'd ; — if a thousand times 
Thou hadst, by strong prosperity made thoughtless, 
Touch 'd his unfather'd nature in its nerve 
Of agony, and felt no chiding glance ; — 
Hadst thou beheld him overtax his strength 
To serve the wish his genial instinct guess'd, 
Till his dim smile the weariness betray 'd, 
Which it would fain dissemble ; hadst thou known 
In sickness the sweet magic of his care, 
Thou couldst not ask it. — Hear me, Ctesiphon ! — 
I lay in fever once, which slaves refused 
To tend ; he glided to my lonely bed, 
And soothed my dull ear with discourse which grew 
By nice degrees to ravishment, till pain 
Seem'd an heroic sense, which made me kin 
To the great deeds he pictured ; and the brood 
Of dizzy weakness flickering through the gloom 
Of my small curtain'd prison caught the hues 
Of beauty spangling out in glorious change ; 
And it became a luxury to lie 
And faintly listen. Canst thou bid me slay him ? 

CTESIPHON. 

The deed be mine. Thou'lt not betray me? [Going. 

PHOCION. 

Hold ! 



scene in.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. 1C 

If by our dreadful compact he must fall, 
I will not smite him with my coward thought 
Winging a distant arm ; I will confront him 
Arm'd with delicious memories of our youth, 
And pierce him through them all. 

CTESIPHON. 

Be speedy, then ! 

PHOCION. 

Fear not that I shall prove a laggard, charged 
With weight of such a purpose. — Fate commands, 
And I live now but to perform her bidding. 

[Exeunt severally. 



Scene III. — A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace, by 
Moonlight. 

Enter Ion and Agenor. 
agenor. 
Wilt thou not seek repose ? 

ION. 

My rest is here — 
Beneath the greatness of the heavens, which awes 
My spirit, toss'd by sudden change, and torn 
By various passions, to repose. Yet age 
Kequires more genial nourishment — pray seek it — 
I will but keep thee to inquire once more 
If any symptom of returning health 
Bless the wan city ? 

AGENOR. 

No — the perishing 



104 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act iv. 

Lift up their painful heads to bless thy name, 
And their eyes kindle as they utter it ; 
But still they perish. 

ION. 

So ! — give instant order, 
The rites which shall confirm me in my throne 
Be solemnised to-morrow. 

AGENOR. 

How ! so soon, 
While the more sacred duties to the dead 
Remain unpaid ? 

ION. 

Let them abide my time — 
They will not tarry long. I see thee gaze 
With wonder on me — do my bidding now, 
And trust me till to-morrow. Pray go in, 
The night will chill thee else. 



AGENOR. 



Farewell, my lord ! [Exit. 

ION. 

Now all is stillness in my breast — how soon 
To be displaced by more profound repose, 
In which no thread of consciousness shall live 
To feel how calm it is ! — lamp serene, 
Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
For the last time ? Shall I enjoy no more 
Thy golden haziness which seem'd akin 
To my young fortune's dim felicity ? 
And when it coldly shall embrace the urn 
That shall contain my ashes, will no thought 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 105 

Of all the sweet ones ckerish'd by thy beams 
Awake to tremble with them ? Vain regret ! 
The pathway of my duty lies in sunlight, 
And I would tread it with as firm a step, 
Though it should terminate in cold oblivion, 
As if Elysian pleasures at its close 
Flash'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
Who passes there ? 

Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a dagger. 

PHOCION. 

This to the king of Argos ! 

[Ion struggles with Mm, seizes the dagger, which he throws away. 
ION. 

I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 
In the assassin's trade ! — thy arm is feeble — 

{He confronts Phocion. 

Phocion ! — was this well aim'd ? thou didst not mean — 

PHOCION. 

I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 
Of yesterday's great vow. 

ION. 

And couldst thou think 
I had forgotten ? 

PHOCION. 

Thou? 

ION. 

Couldst thou believe, 
That one, whose nature had been arm'd to stop 
The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins, 
Would hesitate when gentler duty turn'd 



106 ION; A TRAQEDY. [act iv. 

His steel to nearer use ? To-morrow's dawn 
Shall see me wield the sceptre of my fathers : 
Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail 
In sternest duty which my country needs, 
My bosom will be open to thy steel, 
As now to thy embrace ! 

PH0CI0N. 

Thus let me fall 
Low at thy feet, and kneeling here receive 
Forgiveness ; do not crush me with more love 
Than lies in the word " pardon." 

ION. 

And that word 
I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive ? 
A devious fancy, and a muscle raised 
Obedient to its impulse ! Dost thou think 
The tracings of a thousand kindnesses, 
Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood, 
Are in the rashness of a moment lost ? 

PHOCION. 

I cannot look upon thee ; let me go, 
And lose myself in darkness. 

ION. 

Nay, old playmate, 
We part not thus — : the duties of my state 
Will shortly end our fellowship ; but spend 
A few sweet minutes with me. Dost remember 
How in a night like this we climb 'd yon walls — 
Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy 
Skimm'd through these statue-border'd walks that 
gleam 'd 



scene i.] ION ; A TEAGEDY. 10 

In bright succession? Let us tread them now ; 

And think we are but older by a day, 

And that the pleasant walk of yesternight 

We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend ! — 

What, drooping yet ! thou wert not wont to seem 

So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come ! [Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

Scene I. — Time — The Morning of the Second Day. The 
Terrace of the Palace. 

Two Soldiers on guard. 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

A stirring season, comrade ! our new prince 

Has leap'd as eagerly into his seat 

As he had languish 'd an expectant heir 

Weary of nature's kindness to old age. 

He was esteem'd a modest stripling ; — strange 

That he should, with such reckless hurry, seize 

The gaudy shows of power ! 

SECOND SOLDIER. 

'Tis honest nature ; 
The royal instinct was but smouldering in him, 
And now it blazes forth. I pray the gods 
He may not give us cause to mourn his sire ! 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

No more ; he comes. 






108 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act v. 

Enter Ion. 
ion. 
Why do ye loiter here ; 
Are all the statues deck'd with festal wreaths 
As I commanded ? 

FIRST SOLDIER. 

We have been on guard 
Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall. 

ION. 

On guard ! Well, hasten now and see it done ; 

I need no guards. [Exeunt Soldiers. 

The awful hour draws near ; 
I think that I can meet it. — Phocion comes : 
He will unman me ; yet he must not go, 
Thinking his presence painful. 

Enter Phocion. 

Friend, good morrow ! 
Thou play'st the courtier early. 

PHOCION. 

Canst thou speak 
In that old tone of common cheerfulness, 
That breathes the promise of delightful years, 
And hold thy dreadful purpose ? 

ION. 

I have drawn 
From the selectest fountain of repose 
A blessed calm : — w 7 hen I lay down to rest, 
I fear'd lest bright remembrances of childhood 
Should with untimely visitation mock me ; 
But deep and dreamless have my slumbers been. 



scene i.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 109 

If sight of thee renews the thoughts of life 
Too busily, — I prize the love that wakes them. 

PH0CI0N. 

Oh, cherish them, and let them plead with thee 

To grant my prayer, — that thou wouldst live for Argos, 

Not die for her ; — thy gracious life shall win 

More than thy death the favour of the gods, 

And charm the marble aspect of grim Fate 

Into a blessed change : I, who am vow'd, 

And who so late was arm'd Fate's minister, 

Implore thee ! 

ION. 

Speak to me no more of life ! 
There is a dearer name I would recal — 
Thou understands me — 

Enter Agenor. 

AGENOR. 

Thou hast forgot to name 
Who shall be bidden to this evening's feast. 

ION. 

The feast ! most true ; I had forgotten it. 

Bid whom thou wilt ; but let there be large store, 

If our sad walls contain it, for the wretched 

Whom hunger palsies. It may be few else 

Will taste it with a relish. [Exit agenok. 

[Ion resumes Ms address to Phocion, and continues it, broken by 
the interruptions which follow. 

I would speak 
A word of her who y ester-morning rose 
To her light duties with as blithe a heart 
As ever yet its equal beating veil'd 



110 ION; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

In moveless alabaster ; — plighted now, 
In liberal hour, to one whose destiny 
Shall freeze the sources of enjoyment in it, 
And make it heavy with the life-long pang 
A widow'd spirit bears ! — 

Enter Cleon. 

CLEON. 

The heralds wait 
To learn the hour at which the solemn games 
Shall be proclaim'd. 

ION. 

The games ! — yes, I remember 
That sorrow's darkest pageantries give place 
To youth's robustest pastimes — death and life 
Embracing : — at the hour of noon.. 

CLEON. 

The wrestlers 
Pray thee to crown the victor. 

ION. 

If I live, 
Their wish shall govern me. [Exit cleon. 

Could I recal 
One hour, and bid thy sister think of me 
With gentle sorrow, as a playmate lost, 
I should escape the guilt of having stopp'd 
The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul 
That ever passion ruffled. Do not talk 
Of me as I shall seem to thy kind thoughts, 
But harshly as thou canst ; and if thou steal 
From thy rich store of popular eloquence 



SCENE I.] 



ION ; A TRAGEDY 



111 



Some bitter charge against the faith of kings, 
'Twill be an honest treason. 

Enter Cassander. 

CASSANDER. 

Pardon me, 
If I entreat thee to permit a few 
Of thy once-cherish'd friends to bid thee joy 
Of that which swells their pride. 

ION. 

They'll madden me. 
Dost thou not see me circled round with care ? 
Urge me no more. 

[As C assander is going, Ion leaves Phocion, and comes to him. 

Come back, Cassander ! see 
How greatness frets the temper. Keep this ring — 
It may remind thee of the pleasant hours 
That we have spent together, ere our fortunes 
Grew separate ; and with thy gracious speech 
Excuse me to our friends. [jew* cassandee. . 

PHOCION. 

'Tis time we seek 
The temple. 



Phocion ! must I seek the temple ? 

PHOCION. 

There sacrificial rites must be perform 'd 
Before thou art enthroned. 

ION. 

Then I must gaze 
On things which will arouse the struggling thoughts 



112 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

I had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. lExeunt 



Scene II.— The Temple. 
Clemanthe, Habra. 

HABBA. 

Be comforted, dear lady; — he must come 
To sacrifice. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Eecal that churlish word, 
That stubborn " must,'" that bounds my living hopes, 
As with an iron circle. He must come ! 
How piteous is affection's state, that cleaves 
To such a wretched prop ! I had flown to him 
Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence 
Might prove a burthen, — and he sends no word, 
No token that he thinks of me ! Art sure 
That he must come ? The hope has torture in it ; 
Yet it is all my bankrupt heart has left 
To feed upon. 

HABEA. 

I see him now with Phocion 
Pass through the inner court. 

CLEMANTHE. 

He will not come 
This way, then, to the place for sacrifice. 
I can endure no more : speed to him, Habra ; 
And bid him, if he holds Clernanthe's life 
Worthy a minute's loss, to meet me here. 



scene ii.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 113 

HABRA. 

Dear lady .' — 

CLEMANTHE. 

Do not answer me, but run, 
Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
To gaze upon my sorrow. [Exit Habba. 

It is hard ; 
Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
In that high fortune which has made him strange. 
He bends this way — but slowly — mournfully. 
He's pale ; he's ill ; how has my censure wrong'd him ! 

Enter Ion. 
ion. 
What wouldst thou with me, lady ? 

CtEMANTHE. 

Is it so ? 
Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon, 
That the departing gleams of a bright dream, 
From which I scarce had waken'd, made me bold 
To crave a word with thee ; — but all are fled — 
And I have nought to seek. 

ION. 

A goodly dream ; 
But thou art right to think it was no more, 
And study to forget it. 

CLEMANTHE. 

To forget it ? 
Indeed, my lord, I cannot wish to lose 
What, being past, is all my future has ; 
All I shall live for : do not grudge me this, 
The brief space I shall need it. 



114 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act v. 

ION. 

Speak not, fair one, 
In tone so mournful, for it makes me feel 
Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am, 
That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul 
In that pure fountain which reflected heaven, 
For a brief taste of rapture. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Dost thou yet 
Esteem it rapture, then ? My foolish heart, 
Be still ! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us ? 
0, my dear Ion ! — let me call thee so 
This once at least — it could not in my thoughts 
Increase the distance that there was between us, 
When, rich in spirit, thou to strangers' eyes 
Seem'd a poor foundling. 

ION. 

It must separate us ! 
Think it no harmless bauble, but a curse 
Will freeze the current in the veins of youth, 
And from familiar touch of genial hand, 
From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks, 
From airy thought, free wanderer of the heavens, 
For ever banish me ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou dost accuse 
Thy state too hardly. It may give some room, 
Some little space, amidst its radiant cares 
For love and joy to breathe in. 

ION. 

Not for me : 



scene ii.] ION ; A TRAGEDY. 1 

My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed 
From that sweet fellowship of human kind 
The slave rejoices in : my solemn robes 
Shall wrap me as a panoply of ice, 
And the attendants who may throng around me 
Shall want the flatteries which may basely warm 
The sceptred thing they circle. Dark and cold 
Stretches the path, which, when I wear the crown, 
I needs must enter : — the great gods forbid 
That thou shouldst follow in it ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

unkind ! 
And shall we never see each other ? 

ion {after a pause). 

Yes! 
I have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills 
That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit 
Hath trod in glory : all were dumb ; but now, 
While I thus gaze upon thy living face, 
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
Can never wholly perish ; we shall meet 
Again, Clemanthe ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Bless thee for that name ; 
Call me that name again ; thy words sound strangely, 
Yet they breathe kindness. Shall we meet indeed ? 
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares, 
Thy councils, or thy pomps ; — to sit at distance, 
To weave, with the nice labour which preserves 

i2 



116 ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

The rebel pulses even, from gay threads 

Bright pictures of thy deeds, and sometimes catch 

The falling music of a gracious word, 

Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be 

Comfort enough : — do not deny me this ; 

Or if stern fate compel thee to deny, 

Kill me at once ! 

ION. 

No ; thou must live, my fair one : 
There are a thousand joyous things in life, 
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy 
As thine hath been, till fitful sorrow comes 
To ruffle it ; and daily duties paid 
Hardly at first, at length will bring repose 
To the sad mind that studies to perform them. 
Thou dost not mark me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Oh, I do ! I do ! 

ION. 

If for thy brother's and thy father's sake 
Thou art content to live, the healer, Time, 
Will reconcile thee to the lovely things 
Of this delightful world, — and if another, 
A happier — no, I cannot bid thee love 
Another ! — I did think I could have said it, 
But 'tis in vain. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou art mine own then still ? 

ION. 

I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nearer. 
joy too thrilling and too short ! 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 11 

Enter Agenor. 
AGENOR. 

My lord, 
The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 

ION. 

I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 

In this world ! Now, farewell ! [Exit. 

CLEMANTHE. 

The last embrace ! 
Then he has cast me off ! — No, 'tis not so ; 
Some mournful secret of his fate divides us : 
I'll struggle to bear that, and snatcl^ a comfort 
From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
Upon him in his state ; Minerva's shrine 
Will shelter me from vulgar gaze; I'll hasten, 
And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! [Exit. 



Scene III. — The Great Square of the City — on one side a Throne 
of state prepared, — on the other an Altar, — the Statues decorated 
ivith garlands. 

Enter Ctesiphon and Cassaneer. 

CTESIPHON. 

Vex me no more by telling me, Cassander, 
Of his fair speech : I prize it at its worth ; 
Thou'lt see how he will act when seated firm 
Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd, 
Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
Should shed it first. 



US ION ; A TRAGEDY. [act v. 

CASSANDER. 

Hast thou forgot the time 
When thou thyself wert eager to foretell 
His manhood's glory from his childish virtues ? 
Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets, 
Who are well pleased to prophesy success, 
So it remain their dream. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou dost forget 
What has chill'd fancy and delight within me — 

[Music at a distance. 

Hark ! — servile trumpets speak his coming — watch 
How power will change him ; let us stand aside. 

The Procession. Enter Medon, Agenor, Phocion, Timocles. 
Cleon, Sages and People ; Ion last, in royal robes. He 
advances amidst shouts, and 



ION. 

I thank you for your greeting — Shout no more, 
But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven, 
That it may strengthen one so young and frail 
As I am, for the business of this hour. 
Must I sit here ? 

MEDON. 

Permit thy earliest friend, 
Who propp'd in infancy thy tottering steps, 
To lead thee to thy throne, — and thus fulfil 
His fondest vision. 

ION. 

Thou art still most kind — 

MEDON. 

Nay, do not think of me, my son ! my son ! 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 1 

What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy 
Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave 
Marbles thy face. 

ION. 

Am I indeed so pale ? 
It is a solemn office I assume ; 
Yet thus, with Phoebus' blessing I embrace it. 

[Sits on the throne. 

Stand forth, Agenor ! 

AGENOR. 

I await thy will. 

ION. 

To thee I look as to the wisest friend 

Of this afflicted people ; — thou must leave 

Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earn'd, 

To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice 

With good men not so absolute in goodness, 

As to forget what human frailty is ; 

And order my sad country. 

AGENOR. 

Pardon me — 



Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request ; 

Thou never couldst deny me what I sought 

In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge 

Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive 

From its long anguish ; — it will not be long 

If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power 

Whether I live or die. 

AGENOR. 

Die ! I am old — 



120 ION ; A TKAGEDY. |>ct v. 

ION. 

Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, 
Which gently wins thee his : exulting youth 
Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, 
And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp 
His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see 
The captain of the guard. 

CRTTHES. 

I kneel to crave 
Humbly the favour which thy sire bestow'd 
On one who loved him well. 

ION. 

I cannot thank thee, 
That wakest the memory of my father's weakness ; 
But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit, 
And learn 'd the need of luxury. I grant 
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share 
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain, 
To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword, 
May glorious laurels wreath it ! In our realm 
We shall not need it longer. 

CRTTHES. 

Dost intend 
To banish the firm troops before whose valour 
Barbarian millions shrink appall'd, and leave 
Our city naked to the first assault 
Of reckless foes ! 

ION. 

No, Crythes ! — in ourselves, 



&UENE in.] ION ; A TKAGEDY. 121 

In our own honest hearts and chainless hands 
Will be our safeguard : — while we seek no use 
Of arms, we would not have our children blend 
With their first innocent wishes ; while the love 
Of Argos and of justice shall be one 
To their young reason ; while their sinews grow 
Firm 'midst the gladness of heroic sports : 
We shall not ask to guard our country's peace 
One selfish passion, or one venal sword. 
I would not grieve thee ; — but thy valiant troop — 
For I esteem them valiant — must no more 
With luxury which suits a desperate camp 
Infect "us. See that they embark, Agenor, 
Ere night. 

CRYTHES. 

My lord— 

ION. 

No more — my word has pass'd. 
Medon, there is no office I can add 
To those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — 
Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger 
As thou didst me ; — there sometimes waste a thought 
On thy spoil'd inmate ! 

MEDON. 

Think of thee, my lord ? 
Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign — 

ION. 

Prithee no more. Argives ! I have a boon 
To crave of you ; — whene'er I shall rejoin 
In death the father from whose heart in life 



122 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act 

Stern fate divided me, think gently of him ! 

For ye, who saw him in his full-blown pride, 

Knew little of affections crush'd within, 

And wrongs which nurtur'd frenzy ; yet no more 

Let the great interests of the state depend 

Upon the thousand chances that may sway 

A piece of human frailty ! Swear to me 

That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves 

The means of sovereign rule : — our narrow space, 

So happy in its confines, so compact, 

Needs not the magic of a single name 

"Which wider regions may require to draw 

Their interests into one ; but circled thus, 

Like a bless'd family by simple laws, 

May tenderly be govern'd ; all degrees 

Moulded together as a single form 

Of breathing loveliness, which finest chords 

Of sympathy pervading shall suffuse 

In times of quiet with one bloom, and fill 

With one resistless impulse, if the hosts 

Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me 

That ye will do this ! 

MEDON. 

Wherefore ask this now ? 
Thou shalt live long ; — the paleness of thy face 
Which late appall'd me wears a glory now, 
And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy 
Of lustrous years. 

ION. 

The gods approve me then ! 
Yet I will use the function of a king, 
And claim obedience. Promise if I leave 



scene in.] ION; A TKAGEDY. 1 

No issue, that the sovereign power shall live 
In the affections of the general heart, 
And in the wisdom of the best. 

HEDON, AND OTHERS. 

We swear it ! 

ION. 

Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! 

Now give me leave a moment to approach 

That altar unattended. [He goes to the altar. 

Gracious gods ! 
In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, 
Look on me now ; — and if there is a Power, 
As at this solemn time I feel there is, 
Beyond ye, that has breathed through all your shapes 
The Spirit of the Beautiful that lives 
In earth and heaven ; to you I offer up 
This conscious being, full of life and love, 
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
End all her sorrows ! 

[Staos himself, and falls. Ctesiphon rushes to support him. 

Ctesiphon, thou art 
Avenged and wilt forgive me. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou hast pluck'd 
The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
And made me feel how pitiful is thirst 
For vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 

Clemanthe rushes forward. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Hold! 
Let me support him — stand away — indeed. — 






124 ION; A TKAGEDY. [act v. 

I have best right, although ye know it not, 
To cling to him in death. 

ION. 

This is a joy 
I did not hope for — this is sweet indeed. — 
Bend thine eyes on me ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

And for this it was 
Thou wouldst have wean'd me from thee ? Couldst thou 

think 
I would be so divorced ? 

ION. 

Thou art right, Clemanthe, — 
It was a shallow and an idle thought ; 
Tis past ; no show of coldness frets us now ; 
No vain disguise, my love. Yet thou wilt think 
On that which, when I feign'd, I truly said — 
Wilt thou not, sweet one ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

I will treasure all. 
Enter Irus. 

ERUS. 

I bring you glorious tidings— Ha ! no joy 

Can enter here. 

ION. 

Yes — is it as I hope ? 

IRUS. 

The pestilence abates. 



scene in.] ION; A TRAGEDY. 12 

ion (springs on his feet). 
Do ye not hear ! 
Why shout ye not ? — ye are strong — think not of me ; 
Hearken ! the curse my ancestry has spread 
O'er Argos is dispell'd — Agenor, give 
This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought 
Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain — 
And Medon ! cherish him as thou hast one 
Who dying blesses thee ; — my own Clemanthe ! 
Let this console thee also — Argos lives — 
The offering is accepted — all is well ! [Dies. 



TJie curtain falls. 



ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 



A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 



FIRST REPRESENTED, AUGUST, 



THE EIGHT HON. THOMAS LORD DENMAN, 

Lord Chief Justice of Her Majesty's Court of Queen's Bench, 

IN TESTIMONY OF WARM ADMIRATION 

OF THOSE QUALITIES WHICH WERE THE GRACE AND DELIGHT OF THE BAR, 

AND WHICH HAPPILY ADORN THE BENCH, 

AND IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF MANY CHEERING KINDNESSES; 



THIS TEAGEDY 



IS, WITH HIS PERMISSION, 

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Creon, King of Corinth. 

Hyllus, Son of Creon. 

Iphitus, Priest of the Temple of Jupiter the Avenger, at 

Corinth. 
Calchas, an Athenian, living at Corinth. 
Thoas, an A thenian Warrior. 
Pentheus, an Athenian Warrior. 
Lycus, Master of the Slaves to the King of Corinth. 

Athenian and Corinthian Soldiers, &c. 

Ismene, Queen of Corinth ; second ivife of Creon. 
Creusa, Daughter of Creon j twin-born of his first wife 
with Hyllus. 

Scene — Corinth, and its immediate neighbourhood. 
Time of Action — Two days. 



ATHENIAN CAPTIVE; 



A TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The Acropolis of Corinth. Creon reclining on a bench, 
beneath open columns — Iphitus a little behind him, in the dress 
of Augury, watching the flight of birds. The Sea seen far below, 
in the distance. 

IPHITUS. 

Wheel through the ambient air, ye sacred birds, 

In circles still contracting, that aspire 

To share the radiance of yon dazzling beams, 

And 'midst them float from mortal gaze ! Ye speak 

In no uncertain language to the sons 

Of Corinth, that the shames they bear from Athens 

Shall speedily be lost in glories won 

From insolent battalions, that have borne 

Their triumphs to our gates. Eejoice, my king ! 

Leave mournful contemplation of the dust, 

To hail the omen ! 



i 



I am so perplex'd 
With the faint tracings age's weakness 



k 2 



132 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 

That I distinguish not the winged forms 
Thou speakest of, from the mists that flicker quick 
On eyes which soon must be all dark. To me 
No omen can be otherwise than sad. 



Surely, my king — for I will answer thee 

Untrembling, as Jove's minister — these signs 

Should make thy heart beat proudly ; hast not felt 

Upon our loftiest eminence, the blight 

Of that dishonour which alone can slay 

The spirit of a people : — seen our fanes 

Crowded with suppliants from our wasted fields, 

Shrieking for help in vain, and mourn'd the power 

Of Athens to convert our cloudless sky, 

And the bright sea which circles us, to bounds 

Of a great prison ? If thy kingly soul 

Hath shrunk — as well I know it hath — from shame 

Without example in our story, now 

Bid it expand, as our beleaguer'd gates 

Shall open wide to let our heroes pass, 

With brows which glisten to receive the laurel 

From their king's hand. 

CREON. 

Perchance to see him die. 
O, Iphitus ! thy king hath well nigh spent 
His store of wealth, of glory, and of power, 
Which made him master of the hopes and strengths 
Of others ! While the haggard Fury waits 
To cut the knot which binds his thousand threads 
Of lustrous life, and the sad ghost forsakes 
The palace of its regal clay, to shrink. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

Thin as a beggar's, sceptreless, uncrown'd, 

Unheeded, to the throng'd and silent shore 

Where flattery soothes not, think'st thou it can draw 

A parting comfort from surrounding looks 

Of lusty youth, prepared, with beaming joy, 

To hail a young successor ? 

IPHITUS. 

Still thine age 
Is green and hopeful ; there is nought about thee 
To speak of mortal sickness, and unnerve 
A soul of noble essence. 

CREON. 

Priest, forbear ! 
The life that lingers in me is the witness 
With which I may not palter. I may seem 
To-day to wear the look of yesterday, — 
A shrivell'd, doting, peevish, weak old man, 
Who may endure while one more winter strips 
A leaflet daily from him, till he stands 
So bare of happiness, that death has scarce 
An art to make him nakeder. My soul 
Begins its solemn whispers of adieu 
To earth's too sweet companionship. Yet, hark ! 
It is Creusa's footstep ; is't not, priest ? 
Is not my child approaching us ? 

IPHITUS. 

Afar 
I see the snowy foldings of a robe 
Wave through the column'd avenue ; thy sense 
Is finer than the impatient ear of youth, 



134 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 

That it should catch the music of a step 
So distant and so gentle. 

CREON. 

If thou wert 
A father, thou wouldst know a father's love 
'Mid nature's weakness, for one failing sense 
Achieves another sharpen'd to attend 
Its finest ministries. Unlike the pomps 
That make the dregs of life more bitter, this 
Can sweeten even a king's. 

[Ckeusa passes across the stage behind Ckeon, bearing offerings. 

She passes on ; 
So ! So ! all leave me. Call her, Iphitus ! 
Although her duty own no touch of fondness, 
I will command her. Am I not her king? 
Why dost not call ? 

Re-enter Creusa, who kneels to Creon. 

Ah ! thou art there, my child ; 
Methinks my waning sight grows clear, to drink 
The perfect picture of thy beauty in ; 
And I grow gentle — Ah ! too gentle, girl — 
Wherefore didst pass me by without regard, 
Who have scant blessing left save thus to gaze 
And listen to thee ? 



Pardon me, my father, 
If, beariug offerings to the shrine of Jove 
For my fair brother's safety, anxious thoughts 
Clove to him in the battle with a force 
Which made its strangest shapes of horror live 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 135 

As present things ; and, lost in their pursuit, 
I heeded not my father. 

CEEON. 

In the battle ? 
Is Hyllus in the combat 'mid those ranks 
Of iron ? He who hath not rounded yet 
His course of generous exercise ? I'm weak ; 
Is that the cause ? Is he impatient grown 
To put the royal armour on, his sire 
Must never wear again ? Oh, no ! his youth, 
In its obedient gentleness, hath been 
An infancy prolong'd ! It is the Power 
Which strikes me with the portents of the grave, 
That by the sight of his ensanguined corpse 
Would hasten their fulfilment ; 'tis well aim'd, 
I shall fall cold before it. 



'Twas a word, 
Dropp'd by the queen in answer to some speech 
In which she fancied slight to Athens, roused 
His spirit to an ecstacy ; he spurn 'd 
The light accoutrements of mimic war ; 
Borrow'd a soldier's sword, and, with the troops 
Who sallied forth at day-break, sought the field — 
Where Jupiter protect him ! 

CREON. 

Bid the queen 
Here answer to us. [Exit iphitus. 

Rarely will she speak, 
And calmly, yet her sad and solemn words 
Have power to thrill and madden. my child, 



136 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i, 

Had not my wayward fancy been enthrall'd 

By that Athenian loveliness which shone 

From basest vestments, in a form whose grace 

Made the cold beauty of Olympus earth's, 

And drew me to be traitor to the urn 

Which holds thy mother's ashes, I had spent 

My age in sweet renewal of my youth 

With thought of her who gladden'd it, nor sought 

By vain endeavour to enforce regard 

From one whose heart lies dead amidst the living. 

Re-enter Iphitus. 

creon. 
Comes the queen hither ? Does she mock our bidding ? 

IPHITUS. 

At stern Minerva's inmost shrine she kneels, 
And with an arm as rigid and as pale 
As is the giant statue, clasps the foot 
That seems as it would spurn her, yet were stay'd 
By the firm suppliant's will. She looks attent 
As one who caught fine hint of distant sounds, 
Yet none from living intercourse of man 
Can pierce that marble solitude. Her face 
Upraised, is motionless, — yet while I mark'd it — 
As from its fathomless abode a spring 
Breaks on the bosom of a sullen lake 
And in an instant grows as still, — a hue 
Of blackness trembled o'er it ; her large eye 
Kindled with frightful lustre ; — but the shade 
Pass'd instant thence ; her face resumed its look 
Of stone, as deathlike as the aspect pure 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 137 

Of the great face divine to which it answered. 
I durst not speak to her. 

CREON. 

I see all plain ; 
Her thoughts are with our foes ; the blood of Athens 
Mantles or freezes in her alien veins ; 
Let her alone. [Shouts without. 

CREUSA. 

Hark ! — They would never shout 
If Hyllus were in peril. 

CREON. 

Were he siain 
In dashing back the dusky wall of shields, 
Beneath which Athens masks her pride of war, 
They would exult and mock the slaughter'd boy 
With Paeans. 

CREUSA. 

So my brother would have chosen. 



Enter Corinthian Soldier. 

SOLDIER. 

Our foes are driven to their tents, the field 
Is ours — 

creon (hastily interrupting him). 
What of the prince — my son ? 
Thou dost avoid his name ; — have ye achieved 
This noisy triumph with his blood ? 

SOLDIER. 

A wound, 
Slight, as we hope, has graced his early valour, 



13S THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

And though it draws some colour from his cheek, 
Leaves the heart fearless. 

CREON. 

I will w 7 ell avenge 
The faintest breath of sorrow which has dimm'd 
The mirror of his youth. Will he not come ? 
Why does he linger if his wound is slight, 
From the fond arms of him who will avenge it ? 

SOLDIER. 

He comes, my lord. 

CREON". 

Make way there ! Let me clasp him ! 
Enter Hyllus, pale, as slightly wounded. 
Why does he not embrace me ? 

[Ceeusa runs to Hyllus, and supports him as he moves towards 
Ceeon. 

CREUSA. 

He is faint, 
Exhausted, breathless, — bleeding. Lean on me, 

[To Htllus. 

And let me lead thee to the king, who pants 
To bid his youngest soldier welcome. 

HTLLUS. 

Nay 
'Tis nothing. Silly trembler ! — See, my limbs 
Are pliant and my sinews docile still. [Kneels to Cbeox. 
Kneel with me ; pray our father to forgive 
The disobedience of his truant son, 
His first — oh, may it prove the last ! 

[Ceeusa kneels with Hyllus to Ceeox. 
CREON. 

My son ! 

Who fancied I was angry ? 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

Enter Ismene. 
{To Ismene.] Art tllOU Come, 

To gaze upon the perill'd youth who owes 
His wound to thee ? 

ISMENE. 

He utter'd shallow scorn 
Of Athens ; — which he ne'er will 



CEEON. 

Wouldst dare to curb his speech ? 

HTLLUS. 

Forbear, my father ; 
The queen says rightly. In that idle mood, 
Which youth's excess of happiness makes wanton, 
I slighted our illustrious foes, whose arms 
Have, with this mild correction, taught my tongue 
An apter phrase of modesty, and shown 
What generous courage is, which till this day 
T dimly guess'd at. 

CREON. 

Canst thou tell his name, 
Who impious drew the blood of him who soon — 
Too soon, alas ! — shall reign in Corinth ? 

HYLLUS. 

One 
I'm proud to claim my master in great war; 
With whom contesting, I have tasted first 
The joy which animates the glorious game 
Where fiercest opposition of brave hearts 
Makes them to feel their kindred ; one who spared me 
To dare another fight, — the sudden smart 
His sword inflicted, made me vainly rush 



140 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act i. 

To grapple with him ; from his iron grasp 

I sank to earth ; as I lay prone in dust, 

The broad steel slnVring in nry eyes, that strove 

To keep their steady gaze, I met his glance, 

Where pity triumph'd ; quickly he return'd 

His falchion to its sheath, and with a hand 

Frank and sustaining as a brother's palm, 

Upraised me ; — while he whisper'd in mine ear, 

" Thou hast dared well, young soldier ! " our hot troops 

Environ'd him and bore him from the field, 

Our army's noblest captive. 

CREON. 

He shall die ; 
The gen'rous falsehood of thy speech is vain. 

CREUSA. 

no ! my brother's words are never false ; 

The heroic picture proves its truth ; — they bring 

A gallant prisoner towards us. It is he. 

Enter Thoas in armour, guarded by Corinthian Soldiers, and 
Ltcus, Master of the Slaves. 



My lord, we bring the captive, whom we found 
In combat with the prince. 

HYLLUS. 

Say rather, found 
Raising that prince whose rashness he chastised, 
And whom he taught to prize a noble foe. 

creon (to the Soldiers). 
Answer to me ! Why have ye brought this man, 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 141 

Whom the just gods have yielded to atone 
For princely blood he shed, in pride of arms ? 
Remove that helmet. 

THOAS. 

He who stirs to touch 
My arms, shall feel a dying warrior's grasp. 
I will not doff my helmet till I yield 
My neck to your slave's butchery ; how soon 
That stroke may fall, I care not. 

CEEUSA (to HYLLTJS). 

Hyllus, speak ! 
Why thus transfix'd ? Wilt thou not speak for him 
Who spared a life, which, light perchance to thee, 
Is the most precious thing to me on earth ? 

THOAS (to CREUSA). 

Ere I descend to that eternal gloom 
Which opens to enfold me, let me bless 
The vision that hath cross'd it ! 

HYLLUS (to CREON). 

If thou slay him, 
I will implore the mercy of the sword 
To end me too ; and, that sad grace withheld, 
Will kneel beside his corpse till nature give 
Her own dismissal to me. 

ismene (speaking slowly to Creon). 
Let him breathe 
A slave's ignoble life out here,; 'twill prove 
The sterner fortune. 

CREON. 

Hearken to me, prisoner ! 



142 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 

My boy hath won this choice — immediate death 
Or life-long portion with my slaves. 



Dost dare 
Insult a son of Athens by the doubt 
Thy words imply ? Wert thou in manhood's prime, 
Amidst thy trembling slaves would I avenge 
The foul suggestion, with the desperate strength 
Of fated valour ; but thou art in years, 
And I should blush to harm thee ; — let me die. 

CKEUSA. 

O do not fling away thy noble life, 

For it is rich in treasures of its own, 

Which fortune cannot touch, and vision'd glories 

Shall stream around its bondage. 

t 

THOAS. 

I have dream'd 
Indeed of greatness, lovely one, and felt 
The very dream worth living for, while hope, 
To make it real, survived ; and I have loved 
To image thought, the mirror of great deeds. 
Fed by the past to might which should impel 
And vivify the future ; blending thus 
The aims and triumphs of a hero's life. 
But to cheat hopeless infamy with shows 
Of nobleness, and filch a feeble joy 
In the vain spasms of the slavish soul, 
Were foulest treachery to the god within me. 
No, lady ; from the fissure of a rock, 
Scathed and alone, my brief existence gush'd, 
A passion 'd torrent ; — let it not be lost 



scene I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 143 

In miry sands, but having caught one gleam 
Of loveliness to grace it, dash from light 
To its abyss in silence. Lead me forth — 
[To creusa.j The gods requite thee I 

CREON. 

Has the captive chosen ? 
I will not grant another moment ; — speak ! 
Wilt serve or perish ? 

hyllus {throwing himself before Thoas). 
Do not answer yet ! 
Grant him a few short minutes to decide, 
And let me spend them with him. 

creon {rising). 

Be it so, then ; 
Kneel, prisoner, to the prince who won thee grace 
No other mortal could have gained : — remember 
The master of my slaves attends the word 
Thou presently shall utter ; tame thy pride 
To own his government, or he must bind, 
And slay thee. Daughter, come ! The queen attends us. 

[Exeunt Creon and Soldiers. 
creusa (to hyllus, as she passes him). 
Thou wilt not leave him till he softens. 

[Ismene follows; as she passes Thoas, she speaks 
in a low and solemn tone. 

ISMENE. 

Live ! 

THOAS. 

Who gave that shameful counsel ? 

ismene (passing on). 

One of Athens. [Exit. 

[Exeunt all but Lycus the Master of the Slaves.— Thoas, and Hyllus. 



144 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. act i. 

thoas {abstractedly). 
What words are these, which bid my wayward blood, 
That centred at my heart with icy firmness, 
Come tingling back through all my veins ? I seem 
Once more to drink Athenian ether in, 
And the fair city's column'd glories flash 
Upon my soul ! 

LTCUS. 

My lord, I dare not wait. 
HYLLUS {eagerly to Ltcus). 
He yields ; — I read it in his softening gaze ; 
It speaks of life. 

THOAS. 

Yes, I will owe life to thee. 

HYLLUS. 

Thou hear'st him, Lycus. Let me know the name 
Of him whom I could deem my friend. 

THOAS. 

My name ? 
I have none worthy of thy ear ; I thought 
To arm a common sound with deathless power ; 
'Tis past ; if thou wouldst mark me from the herd 
Of nature's outcasts, thou may'st call me Thoas. 

lycus {coming forward). 
My prince, forgive me ; I must take his armour, 
And lead him hence. 

THOAS. 

Great Jupiter look down ! 

HYLLUS. 

Thoas, thy faith is pledged. {To Lycus.) Stand back 
awhile, 



I 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 145 

If thou hast nature. Thoas will to me 
Resign his arms. 

thoas (taking off his helmet). 
To a most noble hand 
I yield the glories of existence up, 
And bid them long adieu ! This plume, which now 
Hangs motionless, as if it felt the shame 
Its owner bears, waved in my boyish thoughts 
Ere I was free to wear it, as the sign, 
The dancing image of exulting hopes, 
That imaged it above a throng of battles, 
Waving where blows were fiercest. Take it hence — 
Companion of brave fancies, vanish'd now 
For ever, follow them ! 

[Hylltjs takes the helmet from Thoas, and passes it to Lycus. 
HYLLTJS. 

'Tis nobly done ; 
Nor doubt that it again shall clasp thy brow, 
And the plume wave in victory. Thy sword ? 
Forgive me ; I must filch it for a while : 
Hide it — deem it so — in idle sport, 
And keep thy chidings till I give it back 
Again to smite and spare. 

THOAS. 

Too generous youth, 
Permit my depth of sorrow to be calm, 
Unrufned by vain hope. [Takes off Ms sword. 

Farewell, old sword, 
Thou wert the sole inheritance which graced 
My finish'd years of boyhood — all that time 
And fortune spared of those from whom I drew 

L 



146 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 

The thirst of greatness. In how proud an hour 
Did I first clasp thee with a stripling's hand, 
Fit thee, with fond exactness, to my side, 
And in the quaint adornments of thy sheath 
Guess deeds of valour, acted in old time 
By some forgotten chief, .whose generous blood 
I felt within my swelling veins ! Farewell ! 

[Thoa-8 gives his sword to Hylltts, who delivers it to Lycus. 

hyllus (diffidently). 
Thy buckler ? 

thoas (takes off his "buckler eagerly, and delivers it to Hyllus). 
I rejoice to part with that ; 
My bosom needs no bulwark save its own, 
For I am only man now. If my heart 
Should in its throbbing burst, 'twill beat against 
An unapparell'd casing, and be still. [Going. 

hyllus (hesitatingly). 
Hold ! — one thing more — thy girdle holds a knife ; 
I grieve that I must ask it. 

THOAS. 

By the sense 
Which 'mid delights I feel thou hast not lost, 
Of what, in dread extremity, the brave, 
Stripp'd of all other refuge, would embrace, — 
I do adjure thee, — rob me not of this ! 

HYLLUS. 

Conceal it in thy vest. 

[Thoas hastily places his dagger in his bosom, and takes the 
hand of Hyllus. 

THOAS. 

We understand 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 147 

Each other's spirit; — thou hast call'd me friend, 
And, though in bonds, I answer to the name, 
And give it thee again. 

ltcus (advancing). 

The time is spent 
Beyond the king's allowance : I must lead 
The captive to the court, where he may meet 
His fellows, find his station, and put on 
The habit he must wear. 

THOAS. 

Do I hear rightly ? 
Must an Athenian warrior's free-born limbs 
Be clad in withering symbols of the power 
By which man marks his property in flesh, 
Bones, sinews, feelings, lying Nature framed 
For human ? They shall rend me piecemeal first ! 



i 



HYLLTJS. 

Thoas — friend — comrade, — recollect thy word, 
Which broken now were worse disgrace than power 
Can fix upon thee, bids thee bear awhile 
This idle shame. I shall be proud to walk 
A listener at thy side, while generous thoughts 
And arts of valour, which may make them deeds, 
Enrich my youth. Soon shall we 'scape the court ; 
Ply the small bark upon the summer sea, 
Gay careless voyagers, who leave the shore 
With all its vain distinctions, for a world 
Of dancing foam and light ; till eve invites 
To some tall cavern, where the sea-nymphs breathe 
Rare melodies ; there shalt thou play the prince, 
x\.nd I will put thy slavish vestments on, 

l2 



14S THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 11. 

And yield thee duteous service ; — in our sport 

Almost as potent as light Fortune is, 

Who in her wildest frolics shifts the robe 

Of circumstance, and leaves the hearts it clothed 

Unchanged and free as air. 



I cannot speak. 
Come — or mine eyes will witness me a slave 
To my own frailty's masterdom. — Come on ! [To lycus. 
Thou hast done thy office gently. Lead the way. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Court in the Palace of Creon. 

Enter Creon and Lycus. 
creojst. 
How does the proud Athenian bear his part 
In servile duty ? 

LYCUS. 

I have never seen 
So brave a patience. The severest toils 
Look graceful in him, from the facile skill 
With which his strength subdues them. Few his words 
By question drawn, yet gentle as a child's ; 
And if, in pauses of his work, his eye 
Will glisten, and his bosom heave, anon 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 149 

He starts as from a dream, submissive bows, 
And plies his work again. 

CREON. 

Thou dost espouse 
His cause. Beware ! he hurl'd defiance on me, 
Disdain 'd my age, as if his pride of strength 
Made him in bondage greater than a king 
Sick and infirm as I am ; he may feel 
What yet an old man can inflict. He comes ; 
Why does he leave his duty ? 

LTCUS. 

Tis the hour 
Of rest — of food, if he would take it ; here 
He's privileged to walk. 

CREON. 

Let's stand aside. 

[Creon and Lycus retire from sight. 
Enter Thoas, in the dress of a slave. 

THOAS. 

Had I been born to greatness, or achieved 

My fame, methinks that I could smile at this ; 

Taste a remember'd sweetness in the thought 

Of pleasure snatch'd from fate ; or feed my soul 

With the high prospect of serene renown 

Beetling above this transitory shame 

In distant years. But to be wither'd thus — 

In the first budding of my fortune, doom'd 

To bear the death of hope, and to outlive it ! 

Gods, keep me patience ! I will to my task. [Going. 



150 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act if. 

Re-enter Creon and Ltcus. 
ltcus. 
Wilt thou not join thy fellows at the feast, 
And taste a cup of wine the king vouchsafes 
For merriment to-day ? 

THOAS. 

What ! are they merry ? 

LYCUS. 

Dost thou not hear them ? 

THOAS. 

They are slaves, indeed ! 
Forgive me, I would rather seek the quarry. \_Going. 

Enter Messenger. 
messenger {addressing Creon). 
My lord, the games in honour of our triumph 
Await thee, — first the chariot race, in which 
Thy son prepares to strive. The wrestlers next — 

CREON. 
Let them begin. [Exit Messenger. 

Methinks yon captive's strength, 
No longer rebel, might afford us sport. 
Thoas ! 

THOAS. 

I wait thy pleasure. 

CREON. 

Thou wert train'd, 
Doubtless, at home, to manly exercise, 
And I would have thee show the youth of Corinth 
How the Athenians throw the quoit and wrestle. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 151 

THOAS. 

My lord, I cannot do it ! 

CEEON. 

One so framed 
As thou, had he been native here, would revel 
In sports like these. 

THOAS. 

0, have I not enjoy 'd them ! 
My lord, I am content to toil and mourn — 
Tis the slave's part ; these limbs are thine to use 
In vilest service till their sinews fail ; 
But not a nerve shall bend in sports I strove 
When freeman to excel in, for the gaze 
Of those who were my foes and are my masters. 

Enter Messenger, in haste. 

MESSENGER. 

My lord — the prince — 

THOAS. 

Is he in peril ? 

MESSENGER. 

As his chariot, far 
Before all rivals, glitter'd nigh the goal, 
The coursers plunged as if some fearful thing 
Unseen by human eyes had glared on theirs ; 
Then, with a speed like lightning, flash'd along 
The verge of the dark precipice which girds 
The rock-supported plain, and round it still 
In frightful circles whirl the youth ; no power 
Of man can stay them. 



152 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act u. 

THOAS. 

Friend, I come ! I come ! 
ltcus {attempting to stop him). 
Thou must not go. 

THOAS. 

Away ! I'm master now. [Hushes out. 

CREON. 

My son ! my son ! I shall embrace thy corpse, 

And lie beside it. Yet I cannot bear 

This anguish ; dead or living, I will seek thee ! [Exit. 

lycus (Looking out). 
How the slave spurns the dust ; with what a power 
He cleaves the wondering throng, — they hide him now, — 
Speed him, ye gods of Corinth ! 

Enter Creusa. 

creusa. 

Whence that cry 
Of horror mingled with my brother's name ! 
Is he in danger ? Wherefore dost thou stand 
Thus silently, and gaze on empty air ? 
Speak ! 

Enter IPHITUS. [Creusa addressing Mm. 

From thy sacred lips the truth 
Must flow. 

IPHITUS. 

Be calm ; thy brother is preserved ; 
Urged by his furious steeds, his chariot hung 
Scarce poised on the rock's margin, where the vale 
Lies deepest under it ; an instant more, 
And Hyllus, who serenely stood with eyes 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 153 

Fix'd on the heavens, had perish'd; when a form 

With god-like swiftness clove the astonish'd crowd; 

Appear'd before the coursers, scarce upheld 

By tottering marl; — strain 'd forward o'er the gulf 

Of vacant ether ; caught the floating reins, 

And drew them into safety with a touch 

So fine, that sight scarce witness'd it. The prince 

Is in his father's arms. 

CREUSA. 

Thou dost not speak 
The hero's name ; — yet can I guess it well. 

IPHITUS. 

Thoas. — He comes. 

CREUSA. 

Let me have leave to thank him. 

[Exeunt Iphitus and Lycus. 
Enter Thoas. 
Hero ! accept a maiden's fervent thanks, 
All that she has to offer, for a life 
Most precious to her. 

THOAS. 

Speak not of it, fair one ! 
Life, in my estimate, 's too poor a boon 
To merit thanks so rich. 

CREUSA. 

Not such a life 
As his to me. We both together drew 
Our earliest breath, and one unconscious crime 
Shared ; for the hour that yielded us to day 
Snatch 'd her who bore us. Thence, attach 'd we grew, 
As if some portion of that mother's love 



154 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 

Each for the other cherish'd ; twin-born joys, 
Hopes, fancies, and affections, each has watch 'd 
In the clear mirror of the other's soul, 
By that sweet union doubled. Thou hast saved 
Two lives in saving Hyllus. 

THOAS. 

'Tis not meet 
That such a wretch as I, in garb like this, 

[Looking at his dress, and shuddering. 

Should listen to the speech of one so fair ; 
It will unfit me for my tasks. 

CEEUSA. 

Thy tasks ? 
Oh hard injustice ! 

Enter Hyllus, Creusa meeting Mm. 
Brother, join thy thanks 

To mine. [Hyllus and Creusa embrace. 

THOAS. 
No more. [Hetiring. 

Grant, ye immortal gods, 
So beautiful a bond be never broken ! [Exit thoas. 

creusa. 
He speaks of tasks. My brother, canst endure 
To see a hero who hath twice preserved 
Thy life — upon whose forehead virtue sits 
Enthroned in regal majesty — thus held 
In vilest thraldom ? 

HYLLUS. 

Ah ! my sweet Creusa, 
Thy words breathe more than gratitude. 



scene n.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. IE 

CBEUSA. 

My brother, 
I pray thee, do not look into my face. 

HYLLUS. 

Nay, raise thy head, and let thine eye meet mine ; 
It reads no anger there. Thy love is pure 
And noble as thyself, and nobly placed ; 
And one day shall be honour'd. 

CEEUSA. 

Spare me ! 

HYLLUS. 

Come, 
The banquet has begun : the king expects us. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — Banqueting-Hall in Creon's Palace. 

Ckeon, Ismene, Iphitus, Calchas, and Corinthians, seated 
at the Banquet. 

creon (rising). 

I thank ye for my son ; — he is unharm'd, 

And soon will join our revelry. 

ISMENE. 

We lack 
Attendance. Where is Thoas ? It were fit 
In Corinth's day of triumph, he should wait 
On his victorious enemies. Go seek him. 

[Exit an Attendant. 



I would have spared his services to-day ; 
He is but young in bondage, and hath done 






156 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 

A glorious deed. Drink round, my friends, and pledge 
My son once more. 

ISMENE. 

My sovereign, I should deem 
So great a master in the skill to tame 
The nature struggling in a free-born soul, 
Would think it wisdom to begin betimes, 
When an Athenian spirit should be stifled. 
If thou would'st bend him to the yoke, 'twere best 
Commence to-day ; to-morrow 't may be vain. 

Enter Thoas. 
Athenian ! — slave ! — 'tis well that thou hast come ; 
Else might we fear thou didst not feel so proud 
As such a man as thou should feel, to wait 
Upon his victor. Carry round the cup, 
And bear it to the king, with duteous action. 

THOAS. 
I will endeavour, lady. [Takes the cup, and speaking aside. 

So ! They join 
In very openness of heart to cast 
This shame upon me ; take the mantling cup 
With thoughtless pleasure from a warrior's hand, 
And smile to see it quiver ; bless the wine 
With household names, sweet thoughts of friends afar, 
Or love which death hath hallowed ; and while springs 
Of cordial joy are quicken 'd by the draught, 
Will bid affections, generous as their own, 
Shrink, agonise, and wither ! 

ISMENE. 

Slave ! attend ! 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 157 

Enter Htllus and Creusa. 

CRE0N. 

Hyllus, our friends have pledged thee ; take thy place, 
And thank them. 

htllus {advancing). 

I am grateful. — Thoas, thus ? 

CREON. 

We blamed thy absence, daughter. Sit beside 
The queen. 

CREUSA. 

A humbler place befits me, father. 

[Sits at the end of the circle. 
[Thoas attempts to hand the cup. 

creusa (to Hyllus). 
Brother, dost see ? 

htllus (aside to Thoas, taking the cup from him). 
Thoas, I blush at this ; 
Give me the cup — Corinthian citizens, 
This is a moment when I cannot trust 
The grace of serving you to any hand 
Except mine own. The wine will send a glow 
Of rare delight when minister'd by one 
Who hath this day touch'd life's extremest verge, 
And been most bravely rescued. [Htllus hands the cup. 



Will the king 
Permit this mockery ? 

CREON. 

Foolish stripling, cease ! 
Let the slave hand the cup : and having pass'd 



158 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act if. 

Another round, fill high, for I will pour 
A great libation out, with such a prayer 
As every heart shall echo while the dust 
Of Corinth drinks it in. 

[Thoas takes the cup, and approaches Creusa. 
CREUSA. 

Nay, tremble not. 
Think thou dost pay free courtesy to one 
Who in the fulness of a grateful heart, 
Implores the gods to cherish thee with hope 
For liberty and honour. 

THOAS. 

Words so sweet 
Eeward and o'erpay all. 

CREON. 

Corinthians, rise ! 
Before the gods, who have this day espoused 
The cause of Corinth, I this votive cup 
Pour with one glorious prayer — Euin to Athens ! 

[Thoas dashes down the cup he is about to hand to the King. 
THOAS. 

Ruin to Athens ! who dares echo that ? 
Who first repeats it dies. These limbs are arm'd 
With vigour from the gods that watch above 
Their own immortal offspring. Do ye dream, 
Because chance lends ye one insulting hour, 
That ye can quench the purest flame the gods 
Have lit from heaven's own fire ? 



htllus (trying to appease the 

'Tis ecstacy — 
Some frenzy shakes him. 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 159 

THOAS. 

No ! I call the gods, 
Who bend attentive from their azure thrones, 
To witness to the truth of that which throbs 
Within me now. Tis not a city crown'd 
With olive and enrich 'd with peerless fanes 
Ye would dishonour, but an opening world 
Diviner than the soul of man hath yet 
Been gifted to imagine — truths serene, 
Made visible in beauty, that shall glow 
In everlasting freshness ; unapproach'd 
By mortal passion ; pure amidst the blood 
And dust of conquests ; never waxing old ; 
But on the stream of time, from age to age, 
Casting bright images of heavenly youth 
To make the world less mournful. I behold them ! 
And ye, slight insects of a day, would quaff 
" Ruin to Athens !" 

CREON. 

Are ye stricken all 
To statues, that ye hear these scornful boasts, 
And do not seize the traitor ? Bear him hence, 
And let the executioner's keen steel 
Prevent renewal of this outrage. 

IPHITUS. 

Hold! 
Some god hath spoken through him. 

ISMENE. 

Priest ! we need 
No counsel from thee. 



HYLLUS. 

Father, he will bend- 



, 



160 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ii. 

'Twas madness — was't not, Thoas '? — answer me : 
Ketract thy words ! 

THOAS. 

I've spoken, and I'll die. 

ISMENE. 

Twere foolish clemency to end so soon 
The death-pangs of a slave who thus insults 
The king of Corinth. I can point a cell 
Deep in the rock, where he may wait thy leisure 
To frame his tortures. 

HYLLUS {to CREON). 

If thou wilt not spare, 
Deal with him in the light of day, and gaze 
Thyself on what thou dost, but yield him not 
A victim to that cold and cruel heart. 



ISMENE 

Cold ! I must bear that too. lAhud. 

Thou hear'st him, king 
Thou hear'st the insolence, which waxes bolder 
Each day, as he expects thy lingering age 
Will yield him Corinth's throne. 

CREON. 

Ungrateful boy ! 
Go, wander alien from my love ; avoid 
The city's bounds ; and if thou darest return 
Till I proclaim thy pardon, fear to share 
The fate of the rash slave for whom thou plead'st. 

THOAS. 

King, I will grovel in the dust before thee ; 
Will give these limbs to torture ; nay, will strain 



SCENE II.] 



THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 



161 



Their free-born sinews for thy courtiers' sport, 
If thou recall the sentence on thy son. 



Thou wilt prolong his exile. To thy cell ! [To thoas. 
There wait thy time of death. My heart is sick — 
But I have spoken. 

HTLLUS. 

Come with me, sweet sister, 
And take a dearer parting than this scene 
Admits. Look cheerily ; — I leave thy soul 
A duty which shall lift it from the sphere 
Of sighs and terrors. Father, may the gods 
So cherish thee that thou may'st never mourn, 
With more than fond regret, the loss of one 
Whose love stays with thee ever ! 

[Exeunt Hyllus and Creusa. 

iphitus (offering to support Creon). 

Hold ! he faints ! 

CREON. 

No ; — I can walk unaided — rest will cure me. 

[Exit Creon. 
ISMENE. 

Good night, my friends ! 

[Exeunt all but Ismene, Thoas, and Calchas. 

Thou, Calchas, wait and guard 
The prisoner to his cell. Thou know'st the place. 



Lead on. 



ismene (coming to the front to Thoas). 
Thou wilt not sleep ? 



162 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act : 

THOAS. 

I wish no sleep 
To reach these eyes, till the last sleep shall seal them. 

ISMENE. 

Others may watch as well as thou. 

THOAS. 

Strange words 
Thou speakest, fearful womau ! Are they mockeries ? 
Methinks they sound too solemn. 

ISMENE. 

Said I not, 
I am of Athens ? Hush ! These walls have echoes ! 
Thy gaoler is of Athens, too ; at midnight 
He'll lead thee to a place where we may talk 
In safety. Wilt thou follow him ' 



9 



I will. 

ISMENE. 

'Tis well. Conduct the prisoner to his dungeon. 
Remember, thou hast promised me. 

THOAS. 

My blood 
Is cold as ice ; yet will I keep the faith 

I plight tO thee. [Exeunt Thoas and Calchas. 

ismene (alone). 
It is the heroic form 
Which I have seen in watching, and in sleep 
Frightfully broken, through the long, loDg, years 
Which I have wasted here in chains, more sad 
Than those which bind the death-devoted slave 



SCENE I.] 



THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 



163 



To his last stony pillow. Fiery shapes, 

That have glared in upon my bed to mock 

My soul with hopes of vengeance, keep your gaze 

Fix'd steadfast on me now ! My hour is nigh ! [Exit. 



ACT III. 



Scene I. — A Dungeon in the Rock. 



Thoas discovered, alone. 



THOAS. 

Ye walls of living rock, whose time-shed stains 
Attest that ages have revolved since hands 
Of man were arm'd to pierce your solid frame, 
And, from your heart of adamant, hew out 
Space for his fellow's wretchedness, I hail 
A refuge in your stillness ; tyranny 
Will not stretch forth its palsied arm to fret 
Its captive here. Ye cannot clasp me round 
With darkness so substantial, as shall shut 
The airy visions from me which foreshow 
The glories Athens will achieve, when I 
Am passionless as ye. I hear a step ; 
It is that mournful lady's minister, 
Who comes to waken feelings I would bid 
For ever sleep. A light, as of a star, 
Gleams in the narrow cavern's steep descent ; 
And now a form, as of a goddess, glides 

M 2 



164 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

To illuminate its blackness. Tis Creusa ! 
My heart is not yet stone. 

Enter Creusa. 

CREUSA. 

I venture hither 
Thus boldly, to perform a holy office, 
Which should have been my brother's. — When he fled 
The city of his nurture, his last thoughts 
Were bent on his preserver; he bequeath 'd 
His strong injunction never to forsake 
The aim of thy deliverance. I exult 
That Heaven thus far has prosper'd it ; be quick, 
And follow me to freedom. 

THOAS. 

Didst thou say 
To freedom, lovely one ? 

CREUSA. 

If thou wilt haste ; 
The path is clear ; the city wrapt in sleep ; 
I know the pass- word at the gates — how learn 'd 
By quaint device, I'll tell thee when we meet 
In safety, — if we ever meet again ! 

THOAS. 

And dost thou wish it ? 

CREUSA. 

Do I wish it ? Yes ! 
And on the swift fulfilment of that wish 
My life is wager'd. 

THOAS. 

There is more than life 
To me in these sweet words — speak them again — 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 165 

But no ; once heard they linger on the ear 

Which drank them in, for ever. . Shapeless rocks 

That witness to the sound, rejoice ! No fane 

Of alabaster while the breeze has slept 

In circling myrtles, and the moon disclosed 

Young love's first blush to the rapt eyes of him 

Whose happy boldness raised it, rivals you 

In sanctity which rich affection lends 

To things of earthly mould. Methinks ye spring 

Rounded to columns ; your dank mists are cuii'd 

Upwards in heavenly shapes, and breathe perfume, 

While every niche which caught the music speeds 

Delicious echoes to the soul. 'Twere bliss 

To dwell for ever here. 

CREUSA. 

linger not ; 
The watch will change at midnight. 

THOAS. 

Midnight — Jove ! — 
I cannot go. 

CREUSA. 

Not go ! I ask no thanks — 
No recompense — no boon, — save the delight 
Of saving thee ; for this I've perill'd all — 
Life, freedom, fame, and now thou tell'st me, proud one, 
That I have perill'd all in vain. 

THOAS. 

Forbear, 
In mercy ; I have pledged my word to wait 
A messenger the queen will send at midnight, 
To bring me to her presence. 



166 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

CEEUSA. 

To the queen ? 
What would she with thee ? She is steel'd gainst nature ; 
I never knew her weep or heave a sigh 
That reach'd the ear ; she loves to seek a glen 
Close to the temple of Avenging Jove, 
Which sinks 'mid blasted rocks, whose narrow gorge 
Scarce gives the bold explorer space ; its sides, 
Glistening in marble blackness, rise aloft 
From the scant margin of a pool, whose face 
No breeze e'er dimpled ; in its furthest shade 
A cavern yawns where vapours rise so deadly 
That none may enter it and live ; they spread 
Their rolling films of ashy white like shrouds 
Around the fearful orifice, and kill 
The very lichens which the earthless stone 
Would nurture ; — whether evil men, or things 
More terrible, meet this sad lady there, 
I know not — she will lead thee thither ! 

THOAS. 

No— 
Not if guilt point the way, if it be sorrow 
I must endure it rather than the curse 
Which lies upon the faithless heart of him 
Who breaks a promise plighted to the wretched ; 
For she is wretched. 

OEEUSA. 

So am I. Methinks 
I am grown selfish ; for it is not suffering 
I dread should fall upon thee, but I tremble 
Lest witchery of that awful woman's grief 
Lead thee to some rash deed. Thou art a soldier, 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 167 

A rash proficient in the game of death, 
And may'st be wrought on. 

THOAS. 

Do not fear for me ; 
If shows of glory beckon I'll not wait 
To pluck away the radiant masks and find 
Death under them ; but at the thought of blood 
Shed save in hottest fight, my spirit shrinks 
As from some guilt not aim'd at human things 
But at the majesty of gods. 



Forgive me ; 
It was a foolish terror swept across 
My soul — I should not have forgot 'twas mercy 
That made thee captive. 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Thoas ! 

THOAS. 

I am call'd. 
The voice came that way — still thy upward path 
Is open — haste — he must not find thee here. 



My prayers — all that the weak can give — are thine. 
Farewell ! {Exit. 

THOAS. 

The gods for ever guard thee ! 
She glides away — she gains the topmost ridge — 
She's safe. Now can I welcome fate with bosom 
Steel'd to endure the worst. 



168 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act m. 

VOICE WITHOUT. 

Thoas ! 

THOAS. 

I come ! [Exit. 



Scene II. — The Hall of Statues in Creon's Palace. 

Enter Ismene. 
ismene. 
Why tarries Calchas ? It is past the hour 
Of deepest night, when he should hither guide 
The avenger of my sorrows. Gods of Athens, 
Whom strong expostulation hath compell'd 
To look upon my shames, one little hour, 
I ask your aid ; that granted, never more 
Shall the constraining force of passion break 
Your dread repose ! I hear a warrior's step — 
Ye answer, and ye bless me ! 

Enter Calchas and Thoas. 

It is well. [To Calchas. 

Withdraw, and wait without. I must confer 

With this unyielding man, alone. [Exit calchas. 

THOAS. 

I wait 
To learn thy will ; — why hast thou bid me leave 
The stubborn rock, where I had grown as dull, 
As painless as the cell to which thy breath 
Consign'd me ? — thou, who urged the king to wreak 
His most inglorious spleen on one too low 
To be mark'd out for anger, too resolved 
To heed it ! 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

ISMENE. 

I beheld in thee a soldier, 
Born of that glorious soil whose meanest son 
Is nobler than barbarian kings, with arm 
Worthy to serve a daughter who has claim 
On its best blood. But there is softness in thee, 
Weakening thy gallant nature, which may need 
The discipline of agony and shame 
To master it. Hast thou already learn'd 
Enough to steel thee for a generous deed ; 
Or shall I wait till thou hast linger "d long 
In sorrow's mighty school ? I'm mistress in it, 
And know its lessons well. 

THOAS. 

If thou hast aught 
Of honour to suggest, I need no more 
To fit me for thy purpose ; if thy aim 
Hath taint of treachery or meanness in it, 
I think no pain will bend me to thy will ; 
At least, I pray the gods so ! 

ISMENE. 

Hadst thou borne 
Long years of lingering wretchedness like mine, 
Thou wouldst not play the casuist thus. 'Tis well 
For lusty youth, that casts no glance beyond 
To-morrow's fight or game, which values life 
A gewgaw, to be perill'd at a plunge 
From some tall rock into an eddying gulf, 
For the next revel's glory, to collect 
The blood into the cheek, and bravely march 
Amidst admiring people to swift death, 



170 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 

And call its heedlessness of what it yields — 
A sacrifice heroic. But who knows, 
Who guesses, save the woman that endures, 
What 'tis to pine each weary day in forms 
All counterfeit ; — each night to seek a couch 
Throng'd by the phantoms of revenge, till age 
Find her in all things weaken'd save the wish, 
The longing of the spirit which laughs out 
In mockery of the withering frame ! Thoas, 
I have endured all this — I, who am sprung 
From the great race of Theseus ! 

THOAS. 

From the race 
Of Theseus ! — of the godlike man whose name 
Hath shone upon my childhood as a star 
With heavenly power ? 

ISMENE. 

Reduced to basest needs 
By slow decay in Attica, array 'd 
In hateful splendour here, I bear small trace 
Of whence I sprang. No matter — spurn 'd — disown'd 
By living kindred, I have converse held 
With those of my great family whom death 
Hath stripp'd of all but glory ; and they wait 
The triumph of this hour to hail me theirs. 

THOAS. 

Shame to our city, who allow'd a matron 
Of that great race to languish ! 

ISMENE. 

Let it pass ; 
A single grief — a short and casual wrong — 



scene II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 171 

Which — in that sense of ages past and hopes 
Kesplendent for the future, which are centred 
In the great thought of country, and make rich 
The poorest citizen who feels a share 
In her — is nothing. Had she sought my blood, 
To mingle with the dust before the pomp 
Of some triumphant entry, I had shed it ; 
And while my life gush'd forth had tasted joy 
Akin to her rapt hero's. 'Tis thy lot — 
Thy glorious lot — to give me all I live for, — 
Freedom and vengeance. 

THOAS. 

What wouldst have me do ? 

ISMENE. 

I have not wasted all the shows of power 
Which mock'd my grief, but used them to conceal 
The sparks which tyrant fickleness had lit, 
And sloth had left to smoulder. In the depths 
Of neighbouring caverns, foes of Creon meet 
Who will obey thee ; lead them thence to-night — 
Surprise the palace — slay this hated king, — 
Or bear him as a slave to Athens. 

THOAS. 

Never ! 
I am a foe to Corinth — not a traitor, 
Nor will I league with treason. In the love 
Of my own land, I honour his who cleaves 
To the scant graces of the wildest soil, 
As I do to the loveliness, the might, 
The hope of Athens. Aught else man can do 
In honour, shall be thine. 



172 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act ill. 

ISMENE. 

I thought I knew 
Athenians well ; and yet, thy speech is strange. 
Whence hadst thou these affections, — whence these 

thoughts 
Which reach beyond a soldier's sphere ? 



From Athens ; 
Her groves ; her halls ; her temples ; nay, her streets 
Have been my teachers. I had else been rude, 
For I was left an orphan, in the charge 
Of a poor citizen, who gave my youth 
Rough though kind nurture. Fatherless, I made 
The city and her skies my home ; have watch'd 
Her various aspects with a child's fond love ; 
Hung in chill morning o'er the mountain's brow, 
And, as the dawn broke slowly, seen her grow 
Majestic from the darkness, till she fill'd 
The sight and soul alike ; enjoy 'd the storm 
Which wrapt her in the mantle of its cloud, 
While every flash that shiver'd it reveal'd 
Some exquisite proportion, pictured once 
And ever to the gazer ; — stood entranced 
In rainy moonshine, as, one side, uprose 
A column'd shadow, ponderous as the rock 
Which held the Titan groaning with the sense 
Of Jove's injustice ; on the other, shapes 
Of dreamlike softness drew the fancy far 
Into the glistening air ; but most I felt 
Her loveliness, when summer-evening tints 
Gave to my lonely childhood sense of home. 



scene n.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 173 

ISMENE. 

And was no spot amidst that radiant waste 
A home to thee indeed ? 

THOAS. 

The hut which held 
My foster-father had for me no charms, 
Save those his virtues shed upon its rudeness. 
I lived abroad : — and yet there is a spot 
Where I have felt that faintness of the heart 
Which traces of oblivious childhood bring 
Upon ripe manhood ; where small heaps of stones, 
Blacken'd by fire, bear witness to a tale 
Of rapine which destroy 'd my mother's cot, 
And bore her thence to exile. 

ISMENE. 

Mighty gods ! 
Where stand these ruins ? 

THOAS. 

On a gentle slope, 
Broken by workings of an ancient quarry, 
About a furlong from the western gate, 
Stand those remains of penury ; one olive, 
Projecting o'er the cottage site which fire 
Had blighted, with two melancholy stems, 
Stream'd o'er its meagre vestiges. 

ISMENE. 

Tis plain ! 
Hold ! Hold ! my courage. Let the work be done, 
And then I shall aspire. I must not wait 
Another hour for vengeance. Dreadful powers ! 
Who on the precipice's side at eve 



174 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 

Have bid gigantic shadows greyly pass 
Before my mortal vision, — dismal forms 
Of a fate-stricken race — I see him now, 
Whom ye led follower of your ghastly train — 
O nerve him for his office ! 

THOAS. 

Fearful woman ! 
Speak thy command, if thou would have it reach 
A conscious ear ; for while thou gazest thus, 
My flesh seems hardening into stone ; my soul 
Grows tainted ; thought of horror courses thought, 
Like thunder-clouds swept wildly ; — yet I feel 
That I must do thy bidding. 

ISMENE. 

It is well ; — 
Hast thou a weapon ? 

THOAS. 

Yes ; the generous prince, 
When I resign'd my arms, left me a dagger. 

ISMENE. 

The prince ! The furies sent it by his hand, 
For justice on his father. 

THOAS. 

On thy husband ? 

ISMENE. 

Husband ! Beware ! — my husband moulders yet 

Within his rusting armour ; such a word 

From thee may pierce the rock beneath whose shade 

He fell, and curse him with a moment's life 

To blast thee where we stand. If this slight king, 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 175 

In the caprice of tyranny was pleased 

To deck me out in regal robes, dost think 

That in his wayward smiles, or household taunts, 

I can forget the wretchedness and shame 

He hurl'd upon me once ? 

THOAS. 

What shame ? 

ISMENE. 

What shame ! 
Thou hast not heard it. Listen ! I was pluck 'd 
From the small pressure of an only babe, 
And in my frenzy sought the hall where Creon 
Drain'd the frank goblet ; fell upon my knees ; 
Embraced his foot-stool with my hungry arms, 
And shriek'd aloud for liberty to seek 
My infant s ashes, or to hear some news 
Of how it perish'd ; — Creon did not deign 
To look upon me, but with reckless haste 
Dash'd me to earth ; — yes ! this disgrace he cast 
On the proud daughter of a line which traced 
Its skiey lineage to the gods, and bore 
The impress of its origin, — on me, 
A woman, and a mother ! 

THOAS. 

Let me fly 
And whet Athenian anger with thy wrongs — 
My thoughts are strange and slaughterous. 

ismene {after a pause). 

Fly then! Yes!— 
[Aside.] 'Twill be as certain. — I will point a way 
Will lead thee through a chamber to the terrace, 



176 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 

Whence thou may'st reach the wall. Thy only peril 
Lies in that chamber — there my peril lies ; 
Now, mark me ! If an arm be rais'd, a voice 
Be heard, or if aught mortal meet thy sight, 
Whate'er the form, thy knife is pledged to quench 
The life that breathes there. 

THOAS. 

I obey. Farewell ! 

[He takes her hand; she shivers; and drops it. 
ISMENE. 

Hold off thy hand — it thrills me. — Swear ! 

THOAS. 

By those 
Who hover o'er us now, I swear ! 

ISMENE. 

Be firm. 
That is the door; thou canst not miss the path. 
Is thy steel ready ? 

THOAS. 

Yes ; — my breast is cold 
As is that steel. 

ISMENE. 

Haste — the thick darkness wanes. 

[Exit Thoas. 

Infernal powers ! I thank ye — all is paid — 
By thousand ecstasies in which my soul 
Grows wanton. Calchas ! 

Enter Calchas. 

Wish me joy, old servant ! 
What dost thou think of him who left me now ? 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 177 

CALCHAS. 

A gallant soldier. 

ISMENE. 

'Tis my son — my own ! 
The child for whom I knelt in vain to Creon, 
Is sent to give me justice. He is gone, 
Arm'd with a dagger, thro' the royal chamber, 
Sworn to strike any that may meet him there 
A corpse before him. Dost thou think the king 
Will see to-morrow ? 

CALCHAS. 

He may slumber. 

ISMENE. 

No— 
He has sent his son to exile — he will wake — 
I'm sure he will. There ! listen ! — 'twas a groan ! 
'Twill be but low — again ! 'Tis finish'd ! Shades 
Of my immortal ancestry, look down, 
And own me of your kindred ! — Calchas, haste ; 
Secure possession of the towers that guard 
The city gates : — entrust them to our friends, 
Who, when I give the word, will set them wide. 
Haste ! 'tis thy final labour. I shall soon 
Be potent to reward the friends who clove 
To me in my sad bondage. 

CALCHAS. 

Whither go'st thou? 

ISMENE. 

To the pale shrine of her whose withering shield 

Is dedicate to Athens. I have pray'd 

At coldest midnight there in vain, for hope 



17S THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

Which might shoot life along my freezing veins. 
I ask her to allay my raptures now, 
By touch of marble — I require its dullness. 
There I'll await the issue. It is sure ! 

[Exeunt Isjeene and Calchas. 



Scene III. — The outskirts of a Wood on one side; the Athenian 
Camp on the other. A Watch-fire at a little distance, lighting 
the Scene. 

Pentheds walking backwards and forwards as on guard. 

PENTHEUS. 

The cold grey dawn begins to glimmer ; speed it 

Ye powers that favour Athens ! From the sea, 

Her everlasting guardian, Phoebus, rise, 

To pom- auspicious radiance o'er the field, 

In which she may efface the foul dishonour 

Her arms own'd yesterday ! Not shame alone, 

But loss no morrow can repair, is hers ! 

Archas, our army's noble leader, sleeps 

Beneath the pressure of a thousand shields ; 

And Thoas, bravest of our youth, a slave — 

Perchance, ere this a corpse. Friend whom I loved, 

In whose expanding glories I grew proud 

As though they had been mine — if yet thou breathest, 

I will deliver, and if dead avenge thee ! 

0, Thoas ! 

Enter Thoas wildly, from the wood. 

THOAS. 

Who pronounced that wretched name, — 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 179 

That name no honest tongue may utter more ? 
Pentheus ! 

PENTHEUS. 

Thoas ! most welcome. Thou art come in time 
To share a glorious conflict. Ha ! thine eyes 
Glare with a frightful light; — be calm, — thou art safe; — 
This is the camp of those who will reward 
Thy great emprise of yesterday, with place 
Among the foremost in the battle. Come 

To my exulting heart. [Offering to embrace Thoas. 

THOAS. 

No ! — hold me from thee ! — 
My heart can ne'er know fellowship again 
With such as thine ; for I have paid a price 
For this vile liberty to roam abroad, 
And cry to woods and rocks that answer me 
With fearful echoes : — such a price, my Pentheus — 
My own unspotted conscience. Dost not see 
Foul spots of blood upon this slave's apparel, 
Polluting e'en that dress ? 

PENTHEUS. 

If thou hast struck 
Some soldier down to vindicate thy freedom, 
Who shall accuse thee ? 

THOAS. 

'Twas no soldier, Pentheus ; 
No stout opponent that my fatal knife 
Dismiss'd to Erebus. A wither'd hand, 
As from an old man, in the gloom stretch 'd forth, 
Scarce met my touch, — which could not have delay 'd 
My course an instant : — 'twas no thought of fear, 

N 2 






180 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

No haste for freedom, urged me, — but an oath 
Glared on my soul in characters of flame, 
And madden 'd me to strike. I raised my arm, 
And wildly hurl'd my dagger ; — nought but air 
It seem'd to meet ; — but a sharp feeble sigh 
Such as death urges when it stops the gasp 
Of wasting age, assured me it had done 
A murderer's office. 

PENTHEUS. 

Think not of it thus : — 
Thy lips are parch 'd, — let me fetch water. 

THOAS. 

No! 
I have drank fiercely at a mountain spring, 
And left the stain of blood in its pure waters ; 
It quench'd my mortal thirst, and I rejoiced, 
For I seem'd grown to demon, till the stream 
Cool'd my hot throat, and then I laughed aloud, 
To find that I had something human still. 

PENTHEUS. 

Fret not thy noble heart with what is past. 

THOAS. 

No ! — 'tis not past ! — the murderer has no past; 
But one eternal pkesent. 

hyllus (within the wood). 

Help me ! — answer ! — 

THOAS. 

The voice of Hyllus ! — of that noble youth, 

Who, for my sake, is outcast from his home, 

So near the camp of Athens ! Should our guards 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 181 

Arrest him, he will perish. Friend ! That voice 
Comes on my ear like that of one who served me, 
In yonder city ; leave thy watch to me 
A moment. 

PEISTTHEUS. 

No — thy passion's dangerous : 
I dare not trust it. 

THOAS. 

See — I have subdued 
The pang which wrung me. By our ancient loves 
Grant me this boon — perhaps the last. 

PENTHEUS. 

Be quick, 
For the watch presently will be removed, 
And trumpets call to battle. [Eat pentheus. 

thoas {calling to Hyllus). 

Here ! The hope 
Of saving Hyllus wafts into my soul 
A breath of comfort. 

Enter hyllus. 

HYLLUS. 

I have lost my path, 
Wandering the dismal night in this old wood ; 
I'd seek the coast ; canst thou point out the way ? 

THOAS. 

Avoid it — on each side the Isthmus, ships 
Of Athens ride at anchor. 

hyllus (recognising him). 

Thoas ! free — 



1S2 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act in. 

Then I am bless 'd, and I can bear my lot, 

However hard ; — I guess the hand that drew 

The dungeon bolts ; — how didst thou quit the palace ? 

THOAS. 

Why dost thou ask me that ? Through a large chamber 
That open'd on a terrace — 'twas all dark ; — 
Tell me who lay there ? 



'Tis my father's chamber. 
Did he awake ? 

THOAS. 

Thy father?— gods ! The king ! 
The feeble old man with the reverend hair ? 
Art sure he rested there ? 

HYLLUS. 

Sure. No one else 
May enter after sunset, save the queen. 

THOAS. 

The queen ! all's clear ! — Jove strike me into marble ! 

HYLLUS. 

Why dost thou tremble so ? as if a fit 
Of ague shook thee ? 

THOAS. 

Nothing — only thought 
Of my past danger came upon my soul 
And shook it strangely. Was the old man there ? 

[Stands abstractedly as stupified. 
PENTHEUS. 

Thoas ! [Without. 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 183 

THOAS. 

Haste ! — Do not lose a moment — fly ! 
The watch-fire that is waning now is fed 
By hands which, madden 'd by the foul defeat 
Of yesterday, will slay thee. 

HTLLUS. 

Whither fly? 
The camp of Athens is before me ; — ships 
Of Athens line the coasts, — and Corinth's king 
Hath driven me forth an exile. I'll return 
And crave my father's pardon. 

THOAS. 

No — not there — 
Yet, where should the poor stripling go ? Jove ! 
When he shall learn — 

HTLLUS. 

Farewell — yet hold an instant ! — 
Wilt thou not send some mesage to Creusa, 
That she may greet her brother with a smile ? 

THOAS. 

Creusa smile ! — Methinks I see her now — 
Her form expands — her delicate features grow 
To giant stone ; her hairs escape their band, 
And stream aloft in air; — and now they take 
The forms of fiery serpents — how they hiss — 
And point their tongues at Thoas ! 

HTLLUS. 

This is frenzy ; 
I cannot leave thee thus : — whate'er my fate, 
I will attend and soothe thee. 



184 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act hi. 

THOAS. 

Soothe me ! — Boy, 
Wouldst haunt me with that face which now I see 
Is like thy father's. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Thou soothe me — 
Look not upon me ; by this iurid light 
Thou glarest a spectre. Hence, or I will rend thee ! 

HYLLUS. 

I rather would die here. 

THOAS. 

Fool ! fool ! away ! 

[Exit Hyllits. 

He's gone — yet she is with me still, — with looks 

More terrible than anger ; — take away 

That patient face, — I cannot bear its sweetness ; — 

Earth, COVer me ! [Falls on the ground. 

Enter Pentheus. 

PENTHEUS. 

The troops are arming fast ; 
They call on thee to lead them. — Hark, the trump — 

[The trumpet sounds. 
thoas {leaps up). 
Yes ; I will answer to its call. Again 
Thou shalt behold me strike. In yonder field 
I'll win that which I hunger for. 

PENTHEUS. 

A crown 
Of laurel which hath floated in thy dreams 
From thy brave infancy — 

THOAS. 

A grave ! a grave ! [Exeunt. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 185 



ACT IY. 

Scene I. — Tlie interior of the Fvmereal €h-ove at Corinth. The 
Urn of Ckeon. 

Ceettsa discovered, tending over it. 



'Tis strange — I cannot weep for him ; I've tried 

To reckon every artifice of love 

Which, 'mid my father's waywardness, proclaim'd 

His tenderness unalter'd ; — felt again 

The sweet caresses infancy received, 

And read the prideful look that made them sweeter ; 

I've run the old familiar round of things 

Indifferent, on which affection hangs 

Its delicate remembrances which make 

Each household custom sacred; — I've recall'd 

From memory's never-failing book of pain, 

My own neglects of dutiful regard 

Too frequent — all that should provoke a tear — 

And all in vain. My feelings are as dull, 

Mine eyes are rigid, as when first they met 

The horrid vision of his thin white hairs 

Matted with blood ! Gods, let me know again 

A touch of natural grief, or I shall go 

Distract, and think the bloody form is here. 

Enter Htllus. 
Hyllus ! my brother ! thou wilt make me weep, 



186 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

For we shall mourn as we have loved together. 
Dost thou know all ? 

HYLLUS. 

Yes, all. — Alas ! Creusa, 
He died in anger with me. 

CREUSA. 

Do not dwell 
On that sad thought ; — but recollect the cause 
Was noble — the defence of one whose soul 
Claims kindred with thine own. 

HYLLUS. 

Unhappy sister, 
What sorrow stranger than thy present grief 
Awaits thee yet ! I cannot utter it. 

CREUSA. 

Speak ; — any words of thine will comfort me. 

HYLLUS. 

I fear thou must no longer link the thoughts 
Of nobleness with Thoas. 

CREUSA. 

Then my soul 
Must cease all thinkings ; for I've blended them 
Till they have grown inseparate. What is this ? 

HYLLUS. 

That he hath made us orphans. 

CREUSA. 

He is free 
From such ignoble murder as thyself. 
What fury shed this thought into a soul 
Once proud to be his debtor? 



scene I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. II 

HYLLUS. 

Fair believer 
In virtue's dazzling counterfeit, 'tis sad 
To undeceive thee. At the break of day 
I met the murderer, frantic from his crime, 
In anguish which explain'd by after proofs 
Attests his guilt. 

CEEUSA. 

And is this all ? Hast said 
All thou canst urge against his nobleness 
Which breathes in every word ? Against thy life 
Preserved at liberal hazard of his own ? 
Against the love which I was proud to bear 
For him, and that with which he more than paid me ? 
He in some frenzy utter'd aimless words, 
And thou at once believed'st him guilty ! Go ! 
Haste and accuse him. Henceforth we are twain. 

HYLLUS. 

Sister, I never will accuse him. 

CREUSA. 

Take 
My thanks for that small promise, though our souls 
While thine is tainted with this foul belief, 
Can ne'er be mingled as they have been. Now 
I see why I was passionless. Ismene 
Bends her steps hither ; thou hadst best retire ; 
She rules the city, for her secret friends 
Cast off their masks, and own themselves the foes 
Of Corinth's prince. 

HYLLUS. 

Beside my father's urn 
I shall await her. 



188 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

CREUSA. 

I will not expose 
My anguish to her cold and scornful gaze ; — 
Brother, farewell awhile ; we are divided, 
But I will bless thee. [Exit. 

Enter Ismene and Guards. 

ISMENE. 

Wherefore art thou here, 
Despite the sentence which the king pronounced 
Of exile ? 

HYLLTTS. 

I have come to mourn a father, 
Whose words of passion had been long unsaid, 
Had his kind heart still throbb'd ; and next, to claim 
My heritage. 

ISMENE. 

Thine ! — win it, if thou canst 



Enter Calchas. 
How stands the battle ? 

CALCHAS. 

Corinth's soldiers fly, 
Routed in wild disorder. Thoas leads 
The troops of Athens, and will soon appear 
In triumph at our gates. 

ISMENE. 

Leads, say'st thou ? — leads ? 
Let Corinth's gates stand open to admit 
The hero, — give him conduct to the hall, 
Where sculptured glories of Corinthian kings 
Shall circle him who shamed them, — there, alone, 
I would crave speech with him. [Exit Calchas. 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 189 

hyllus (to the Soldiers). 

My countrymen, 
Will ye endure this shame ? I am a youth 
Unskill'd in war ; but I have learn 'd to die 
When life is infamy. If ye will join me, 
We'll close the gates with ramparts of the slain. 
Does no heart answer mine ? 

ISMENE. 

Their swords shall curb 
Thy idle ravings. Athens triumphs now ! — 
Attend him to his chamber, and beware 
He leaves it not. 

HYLLUS. 

For this I ought to thank thee : 
I would not see my country's foul disgrace ; 
But thou shalt tremble yet. {Exit, guarded. 

ISMENE. 

Now shall I clasp him — 
Clasp him a victor o'er my country's foes; — 
The slayer of him most hated. Double transport ! 
The dream of great revenge I lived upon 
Was never bright with image of such joy, 
As now comes link'd with vengeance ! Thoas, haste ! 

[Exit. 



Scene II. — Before the Gates of Corinth. 

Shouts without. Thoas in armour, with his sword drawn and 
Athenian Soldiers, as in pursuit. 

THOAS. 

Here we may breathe awhile from conquest ; 'twas 
A noble chase, we scarce may call it battle ; 






190 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

Success so quick has followed on success, 
That we shall want more time to count our glories 
Than we have spent in winning them. The foe 
Is niggard, and will not allow our arms 
One day of conflict. We have won too soon. 
Grant me, great gods ! instead of years of life, 
Another such an hour. 



My lord, here's wine ; 
'Tis from the tents of Corinth. 

THOAS. 

Not a drop. 

My heart's too light — too jocund to allow 

Another touch of ecstacy, derived 

From mortal fruitage ; nay, were it Jove's nectar, 

I'd set the untasted cup of crystal down, 

And drink not till the glorious work were finish 'd ! 

Soldiers ! we sup in Corinth ! You'll not wait 

Past time of hunger, if ye are not faint 

From rapid conquest. 

Enter Pentheus and Soldiers. 

PENTHEUS. 

Noble leader, hail ! 
Thy country's heroes bless thee with the sense 
Of their delighted wonder ! With one voice 
They greet thee as the winner of this fight, 
To which thou led'st them. Never was a scheme 
Of battle, plann'd in council of the sage, 
Form'd with a skill more exquisite than that 
Which, in the instant thou wert call'd to lead us, 



scene II.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 191 

Flash'd on thy spirit, and in lines of fire 

From thine was manifest to ours ! Art wounded ? 

THOAS. 

A very scratch ; I blush to think no more : 
Some mantling blood lost in the strife had served 
To moderate my fervours. 



See ! our comrades 
Have snatched a branch from the Corinthian laurels 
To wreath thy brow ! Soldiers, 'tis much I ask ; 
But when I tell ye I have watch'd your chief 
From the first flash that dazzled in his eye 
At tale of glory, ye may yield to me 
The pride and joy of offering him this honour. 

[Soldier gives the wreath to Pentheus, who gives it to Thoas. 

I thank ye, comrades. 

THOAS. 

The immortal gods 
Grant me a double blessing in the friend 
From whom I take this happiness. O Pentheus ! 
I have mused fondly — proudly — on the fate 
Which waits upon my country ; when the brow 
Which thou wouldst deck, was bared to mist and storm 
When every moonlit fountain which displaced 
The blackness of the moss-grown hillock told 
Of the pure beauty which her name should keep, 
Empearling starless ages ; when each wave 
That rippled in her harbour, to my ear 
Spoke glad submission to the Queen of Cities ; 
But never, 'mid my burning hopes for Athens, 
Did I believe that I should stand thus crown 'd, 



192 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

Her laurell'd soldier ! Friends, the sun-light wanes, 
And we must sup in Corinth ! 

PEHTHEUS. 

See, the gates 

Open to Welcome US ! [The gates open. 

THOAS. 

Without a blow ? 
We shall not earn our banquet. So expands 
Before the vision of my soul, the east 
To the small cluster of her godlike sons. 
Let Asia break the mirror of our sea 
With thousand sterns of ivory, and cast 
A glare upon it from barbarian gold, 
In one great day her navies shall be swept 
As glittering clouds before the sun-like face 
Of free Athenian valour ! Friends, forgive me ; 
I have been used to idle thought, nor yet 
Have learn 'd to marry it to action ; blest 
To-day in both. 

PENTHET7S. 

A herald from the city. 

Enter Calchas. 

CALCHAS. 

I am commission'd by the queen to speak 
With Thoas. 

THOAS. 

I am here. 

[Trembles, awl supports himself, as paralysed, on Pentheus. 

Thou art commission'd 
From the infernal powers to cross my path 
Of glorious triumph, with a shape that brings 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 193 

Before me terrible remembrance, which 
Had strangely vanish 'd from me. 

PENTHEUS (to CALCHAS). 

He is ill — 
Retire. 

THOAS. 

No — should the herald fade in air 
He would not leave his office unfulnll'd, 
One look hath smit my soul. 

PENTHEUS. 

Is this a dream ? 

THOAS. 

No — 'tis a dreadful waking — I have dreamt 

Of honour, and have struggled in that dream 

For Athens, as if I deserved to fight 

Unsullied in her cause. The joy of battle 

In eddies as a whirlpool had engulf'd 

The thought of one sad moment, when my soul 

Was blasted ; but it rises in the calm, 

Like form of slaughterd seamen, that pursues 

The murderous vessel which swept proudly on, 

When his death-gurgle ended. Hence, vain wreath! — 

Thou wouldst entwine my brow with serpent coldness, 

And wither instant there. [Tears the wreath. 

So vanish all 
My hopes ; they are gone — I'm fit to answer thee. 
Who sent thee here ? [To calchas. 

CALCHAS. 

The queen. 



94 THE ATHEi IN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

THOAS. 

A worthy mistress 
Of such a slave — thy errand ? 

CALCHAS. 

She who rules 
In Corinth now, admits the victor's power, 
And bids the gates thus open : she requires 
A conference with Thoas in the hall 
Next to the royal chamber — thou hast been 
There, as I think, my lord. 

THOAS. 

I know it well ; 
Lead, dreadful herald, on ! 

PENTHEUS. 

The troops at f e 
The order of their general. 

THOAS (tO CALCHAS). 

Why dost wait ? 
Thou see'st that I obey thy call. 

PENTHEUS. 

My friend, 
Thy blood is fever'd — thou may'st choose thy time — 
Postpone this meeting, 

THOAS (tO CALCHAS). 

Why dost tarry ? turn 
Thy face away — it maddens me — go on ! 

[Exit after Calchas. 
SOLDIER (tO PENTHEUS). 

My lord, we wait for orders ; this strange man, 
Half warrior and half rhapsodist, may bring 
Our army into peril. 






scene in.] THE ATHENI A CAPTIVE. 1^5 

PENTHEUS. 

Fear it not ; 
He has all elements of greatness in him, 
Although as yet not perfectly commingled, 
Which is sole privilege of gods. They cast 
Such piteous weakness on the noblest men 
That we may feel all mortal. 'Tis a cloud 
Which speedily will pass, and thou shalt see 
The hero shine as clearly forth in council 
As he has done in victory ; meanwhile 
He leaves us pleasant duty — form your lines — 
Sound trumpets — march triumphant into Corinth ! 

[ The Athenians enter Corinth. 



Scene III. — The Hall of Statues in the Palace, same as 
in Third Act. 

thoas (alone). 
Again I stand within this awful hall ; 
I found the entrance here, without the sense 
Of vision ; for a foul and clinging mist, 
Like the damp vapour of a long-closed vault, 
Is round me. Now its objects start to sight 
With terrible distinctness ! Crimson stains 
Break sudden on the walls ! The fretted roof 
Grows living ! Let me hear a human voice, 
Or I shall play the madman ! 

Enter Ismene richly dressed. 

ISMENE. 

Noble soldier, 
I bid thee welcome, with the rapturous heart 

o 2 



196 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 

Of one, for whom thy patriot arm has wrought 

Deliverance and revenge — but more for Athens 

Than for myself, I hail thee : why dost droop ? 

Art thou oppressed with honours, as a weight 

Thou wert not born to carry ? I will tell 

That which shall show thee born to such a fortune, 

And shall requite thee with a joy as great 

As that thou hast conferr'd. Thy life was hid 

Beneath inglorious accident, till force 

Of its strong current urged it forth to-day, 

To glisten and expand in sun-light. Know 

That it has issued from a fountain bright 

As is its destiny. — Thou sharest with me 

The blood of Theseus. 

THOAS. 

If thy speech is true, 
And I have something in me which responds 
To its high tidings, I am doom'd to bear 
A heavier woe than I believed the gods 
Would ever lay on mortal ; I have stood 
Unwittingly upon a skiey height, 
By ponderous gloom encircled, — thou hast shown 
The mountain-summit mournfully reversed 
In the black mirror of a lurid lake, 
Whose waters soon shall cover me, — I've stain'd 
A freeman's nature ; thou hast shown it sprung 
From gods and heroes, and wouldst have me proud 
Of the foul sacrilege. 

ISMENE. 

If that just deed, 
Which thus disturbs thy fancy, were a crime, 



scene m.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 197 

What is it in the range of glorious acts, 
Past and to come, to which thou art allied, 
But a faint speck, an atom, which no eye 
But thine would dwell on ? 

THOAS. 

It infects them all ; 
Spreads out funereal blackness as they pass 
In sad review before me. Hadst thou pour'd 
This greatness on my unpolluted heart, 
How would it have exulted ! Now it racks me, 
From thee, strange sorceress, who snared my soul 
Here — in this dreadful hall ! — May the strong curse 
Which breathes from out the ruins of a nature 
Blasted by guilt — 

ISMENE. 

Hold ! Parricide — forbear ! 
She whom thou hast avenged, she whom the death 
Of Creon hath set free, — whom thou wouldst curse, 
Is she who bore thee ! 

THOAS. 

Thou ! 

ISMENE. 

Dost doubt my word ! 
Is there no witness in thy mantling blood 
Which tells thee whence 'twas drawn ? Is nature silent ? 
If from the mists of infancy, no form 
Of her who, sunk in poverty, forgat 
Its ills in tending thee, and made the hopes 
Which glimmer 'd in thy smiles her comfort, — gleams 
Upon thee yet ; — hast thou forgot the night 
When foragers from Corinth toss'd a brand 
Upon the roof that sheltered thee ; dragg'd out 



198 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

The mother from the hearthstone where she sat 
Resign 'd to perish, shrieking for the babe 
Whom from her bosom they had rent ? That child 
Now listens. As in rapid flight, I gazed 
Backward upon the blazing ruin, shapes 
Of furies, from amid the fire, look'd out 
And grinn'd upon me. Every weary night 
While I have lain upon my wretched bed, 
They have been with me, pointing to the hour 
Of vengeance. Thou hast wrought it for me, son ! 
Embrace thy mother ! 

THOAS. 

that the firm earth 
Would open, and enfold me in its strong 
And stifling grasp, that I might be as though 
I ne'er was born ! 

ISMENE. 

Dost mock me ? I have clasp'd 
Sorrow and shame as if they were my sons, 
To keep my heart from hardening into stone ; 
The promised hour arrived ; and when it came, 
The furies, in repayment, sent an arm, 
Moulded from mine, to strike the oppressor dead. 
I triumph 'd, — and I sent thee ! 

THOAS. 

Dost confess 
That, conscious of my birth, thou urged my knife 
Against the king? 

ISMENE. 

Confess ! — I glory in it ! — 
Thy arm hath done the purpose of my will ; 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

For which I bless it. Now I am thy suitor. 
Victorious hero ! Pay me for those cares 
Long past, which man ne'er guesses at ; — for years 
Of melancholy patience, which young soldiers 
Have not a word to body forth ; for all, — 
By filling for a moment these fond arms, 
Which held thee first. 

thoas (shrinking from her). 

I cannot. I will kneel 
To thank thee for thy love, ere thou didst kill 
Honour and hope ; — then grovel at thy feet, 
And pray thee trample out the wretched life 
Thou gav'st me. 

ISMENE. 

Ha ! Beware, unfeeling man : — 
I had opposed, had crush'd all human loves, 
And they were wither'd ; thou hast call'd them forth, 
Rushing in crowds from memory's thousand cells, 
To scoff at them. Beware ! They will not slumber, 
But sting like scorpions. 

Enter Iphitus. 

Wherefore dost intrude 
On this high conference ? 

IPHITUS. 

The people cry 
That solemn inquisition should be held 
For Creon's blood ! — else do they fear the gods 
Will visit it on them. 

ISMENE. 

They need not fear. 
It will be well avenged. 



200 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iy. 

IPHITUS. 

To thee, Ismene, 
That which I next must speak, is of dear import ; — 
Wilt hear it in this noble stranger's presence ? 

ISMENE. 

Say on, old man. 

IPHITUS. 

From the decaying altar, 
Just as the gates were open cl, breathed a voice 
In whisper low, yet heard through each recess 
Of Jove's vast temple, bidding us to seek 
Of thee, Ismene, who the murderer is, 
And summon thee to the same fearful spot, 
To speak it there. 

ISMENE (tO THOAS). 

Athenian ! dost thou hear? 

THOAS. 

I hear. 

IPHITUS. 

The hostile nations lay aside 
Their quarrel, till this justice to the dead 
Be render'd. Chiefs of each will guard the fane, 
And wait the solemn issue. — In their name 
And in the mightier name of him whose shrine 
Hath burst long silence, I command thee, queen, 
Thou presently be there. 

ISMENE. 

I shall obey — 
Beside the altar place the regal seat ; 
And there, in state befitting Corinth's queen, 
I'll take my place. [To thoas. 

Farewell ! Thou wilt be there ! 



WM 



scene m.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 201 

THOAS, 



Be sure I will not fail. 



ISMENE. 

'Tis well ! Tis well ! [a* 



IPHITUS. 

Thou saidst thou shouldst attend ? 

THOAS. 

I shall. What more 
Would'st thou have with me? 

IPHITUS. 

I would ask a band 
Of the most noble of Athenian youth, 
To witness this procedure ; and to lend 
Their conduct, should the murderer stand reveal'd, 
To keep the course of justice unassail'd, 
And line the path of death. 

THOAS. 

All that can make 
The wretch accurs'd, shall wait him. Let me breathe 
Alone a moment. [Exit iphitus. 

How they'll start to see 
The guilty one descend the solemn steps, 
And hang their heads for shame, and turn their eyes 
In mercy from him ! [Going. 

Enter Creusa. 

CREUSA. 

For a moment hear me — 
I would not break on thy triumphant hours, 
But for my brother's sake. Do not refuse, 
For if he wrong'd thee by a frantic thought, 



202 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

There was one ready to defend thy honour 
From slightest taint ! 

THOAS. 

What taint ? the breath of infamy 
Spreads o'er my name already ! 

CREUSA. 

Do not ask — 
'Twas a wild thought ;— but there are tongues which 

make 
As false a charge ; tongues which have power to crush 
The guiltless ! — They have murmur 'd that this crime 
Is that of Hyllus ! 

THOAS. 

Hyllus the unsullied ! 



I knew that thou would'st say so — that no force 
Of circumstance would weigh in thy pure thought 
Against the beauty of his life. They found him 
Just after day-break, suddenly return'd 
From exile, in the chamber of the king, 
Gazing with bloodless aspect on a sight 
Of bloodshed ; — yet thou dost not think 'twas he 
That with a craven hand — 

THOAS. 

Ono! 

CREUSA. 

And thou 
Wilt plead his cause — wilt save him from the fate 
That threatens his young life ? 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

THOAS. 

My own shall first 
Be quench'd ! 

CEEUSA. 

The gods repay thee for the word ! 
O brother, brother ! couldst thou wrong this heart 
With foul suspicion ? Why dost turn away, 
And shrink and shudder in the warrior's dress, 
As when I thank 'd thee for that brother's life, 
At the slave's vest which then, in thy proud thought, 
Debased the wearer? 

THOAS. 

0, I thought so then ! 
Now I would give the treasures of the deep, 
Nay more — the hope of glory — to resume 
Those servile garments with the spotless thoughts 
Of yesterday. 

Enter Messenger. 

MESSENGER. 

My general, Pentheus, asks 
If, by thy sanction, Iphitus requires 
His presence in the temple ? 

THOAS. 

Pentheus ? — Yes. 



ceeusa (Thoas twrns 
Why in the temple ? wilt not speak ? 

MESSENGER. 

The priest 
There summons all to some high trial. 



204 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act iv. 

CREUSA. 

I see it ! — 
They meet to judge my brother. I will fly — 

THOAS. 

Thou must not, lady — in that fearful place 
Horrors unguess'd at by thy gentle nature 
Will so amaze thee that thou wilt not know 
A peaceful moment more. 

CREUSA. 

And what have I 
To do with peace ? I am no longer young, 
For moments fill'd with love and conquest wrought 
The work of years. I feel that I could point 
The murderer out with dreadful skill — could mark 
The livid paleness, read the shrinking eye, 
Detect the empty grasping of the hand 
Eenewing fancied slaughter ; — why dost turn 
Thus coldly from me ? Ah ! thou hast forgot 
The vows which, when in slavery, thou offer'd, 
And I was proud to answer — if not, Thoas, 
Once press my hand ; gods ! he lets it fall ! — 
So withers my last hope — so my poor heart 

Is broken. [Faints. 

thoas (to Messenger). 
Take her gently in. [Messenger supports her out. 

One glance. 

[Looks at her and shudders. 

O that the beauty I have loved and worshipp'd 
Should be a thing to torture me ! — 'Tis just. [Exit. 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 205 



ACT y. 

Scene I. — The Interior of the Temple of Jupiter the Avenger — 
Ismene seated in the midst, in a Chair of State — Corinthians 
on the right, and Athenians on the left side of the Temple — 
At the extremity on the right side, Htllus standing — At the 
extremity of the left, Thoas 



Corinthians and Athenians, late opposed 

In mortal conflict, dedicated now 

To solemn work of justice, hear the will 

Of the Avenging Power, beneath whose roof 

Ye stand thus marshall'd ! Royal blood has stain 'd 

A palace floor : — not shed in blazing war, 

But in night's peace ; not some hot soldier's blood, 

But the thin current of a frame made sacred 

To Orcus' gentlest arrow. Heaven requires 

Both nations to unite in dealing death 

Upon the slayer, who, unslain, will draw 

Its withering curse on both. In yonder shrine 

Which dim tradition's fearful whispers made 

A terror to my infancy, a voice, 

Which breathed fell murmurs to ancestral ears, 

Breaks centuries of silence to pronounce 

The queen as gifted to direct the shaft 

To the cursed head ; — and every sign around us 

By which the world invisible, when charged 

With bloody secret, struggles to subdue 

Things visible to organs which may send 



206 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

Its meaning to the startled soul, attest 
The duty I assume. — Ismene ! 

ISMENE. 

Priest 
Of Jove, I am attendant to thy summons ; — 
What is thy wish ? 

IPHITUS. 

Sad widow of a king 
Whose feeble life some cruel hand hath stopp'd, 
I do adjure thee, by those hoary hairs, 
That changed their hue from raven whilst thou shared 
His mansion ; — by celestial powers, who watch 
Our firmness now ; — and by those fearful gods, 
Whom 'tis unblest to mention, lay aside 
All terror, all affection — all remorse 
If cause of penitence thou hast, — to rend 
The veil of darkness which the murderer wears, 
And give him to his destiny. Begin 
The solemn strain which shall attune our souls 
To hearken and to execute ! [Solemn musk. 

IPHITUS. 

Ismene, 
Speak : Dost thou know the slayer ? 

ISMENE. 

Yes! 

IPHITUS. 

Dost thou 
Behold him now ? 

ismene (looking wildly round). 
I do not see the faces 
Or know the names of all. Who is the man 
That at the right side of the circle stands ? 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 207 

IPHITUS. 

The youth with head erect and cloudless brow ? 
That is the orphan'd Hyllus. 

ISMENE. 

Who is he 
That sits upon the other side, apart, 
With face averted ? 

[Thoas turns his head suddenly, and looks upon her. 

I behold him now. 
It is a dreadful duty you exact 
From me — a woman. ' If I speak the name, 
What sentence follows ? 

IPHITUS. 

Death. 

ISMENE. 

How soon perform 'd ? 

IPHITUS. 

The Fates require that he thou shalt denounce 

As guilty, must be led in silence hence, 

And none behold him after, save his slayers. 

Attend once more ! Thou hast declared thou know'st 

The guilty one ! I ask thee — is he here '? 

ISMENE. 

gods ! He is. 

IPHITUS. 

Name him ! 

CALCHAS. 

She shudders ! See, — 

1 think she cannot speak ! 



208 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

IPHITUS. 

If quivering tongue 
Eefuse its office, point the victim out. 

[Ismene rises ; turns towards Thoas, who rises, and confronts her ; 
she trembles, pauses, and sinks into her seat. 

IPHITUS. 

Thou hast confess'd the guilty one is here; 
Where stands he ? 

[Ismene rises; points to Hyllus, shrieks " There!" and falls back 
senseless on her seat. 

THOAS. 

Tis false ! 

[Creusa rushes forward and embraces Hyllus. 
CREUSA. 

Most false ! murderess ! 
Protect him, noble Thoas ! 



Peace, my sister : — 
Implore no mortal aid ; let us be patient, 
And suffer calmly what the gods decree. 
My life may satisfy. 

IPHITUS. 

It cannot be ! 
Hold — stir not — breathe not — from that shrine the voice 
Of Heaven will answer hers. Do ye not hear ? [a pause. 
Hark ! — It is voiceless, and the youth is doom'd. 

THOAS. 

Forbear, deluded judges ; look upon him ! 
See on his forehead nature's glorious seal 
Of innocence, outspeaking thousand voices, 
Which shining in the presence of the gods, 
Still shows him guiltless. 



scese i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. ! 

IPHITUS. 

Prove it. 

THOAS. 

With my life-blood! 
O could ye place me in some dizzy cleft 
Of inmost Thracian hills, when ribb'd with ice, 
To hear from every rocky shelf a howl 
Of wolves aroused to famine, — I would stand — 
Calm, — far calmer than I stand, — to wait 
Their fangs, and let my tortured sinews' strength 
Attest his cause ; — 'twere nothing — 'twere no pain — 
To what the spirit feels. 

hyllus (to Thoas, aside). 

Thou wilt disclose 
Thy secret ; — keep it. Leave me to my doom. 

THOAS. 

Never ! Corinthians, hear me 



ismene {recovering). 

What is this ? 
Why waits the parricide still there ? Who dares 
Dispute my sentence ? 

THOAS. 

I! 

ISMENE. 

Be silent. She 
Who most in all the world should have command 
O'er thee, requires thy silence. 

pextheus {stepping forward from the Athenian rank). 
By what right 



210 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

Dost thou — Queen of the vanquish'd — dare command 
The leader of the conquerors ? 

ISMENE. 

By a mother's ! 

[Thoas sinks into Ms seat — Ismene descends and 
stands beside Mm. 

ISMENE. 

Athenians — victors ! — 'tis your fitting name, 
By which I gladly hail you, ye behold 
One whom ye left to suffer, but who boasts 
Your noblest blood. See ! I command my son 
To quit this roof, and leave me to the work 
The gods have destined for me. 

THOAS. 

Stand aside ! 
I have a suit I would prefer alone, 
Which may save guilt and sorrow. 

iphitus (to Htllus). 

Lean on me. 
[To Thoas]. Be brief. 

HYLLUS. 

I have no need ; yet I will take 
This thy last kindness ; for I can accept it 
Without a blush or shudder. 

[All retire, leaving Thoas and Ismene in front. 
THOAS. 

Why hast heap'd 
Foul crime on crime ? 

ISMENE. 

Son ! there has been no crime 
Except for thee. The love that thou hast scorn'd 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 211 

From the heart's long-closed shrine, outwhisper'd fate 
And saved thee. 

THOAS. 

Saved ine ! Thou may'st save me yet ; 
Recall thy sentence ! Give me truth and death ! 

ISMENE. 

And own my falsehood ? No ! Let us go hence 
Together. 

THOAS. 

And permit this youth to die ! 
O that some god would mirror to thy soul 
Our mortal passage, while the arid sand 
We pace ; the yellow, sunless, sky above us ; 
And forms distort with anguish, which shall meet 
Each vain attempt to be alone, enclose 
The conscious blasters of the earth, till forced 
To gaze upon each other, we behold, 
As in eternal registry, the curse 
Writ in the face of each ! No ; let us pray 
For justice and for peace ! 

ISMENE. 

If thou remain, 
And risk dishonour to our house and me, 
The poisonous cave below shall be my home, 
And shelter me for ever ! 

THOAS. 

Bravely thought — 
As fits a matron of heroic line ; 
Be great in penitence, and we shall meet 
Absolved, where I may join my hand to thine, 
And walk in duteous silence by thy side. 

r 2 



212 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

ISMENE. 

And couldst thou love me then ? 

THOAS. 

Love thee ! My mother, 
When thou didst speak that word, the gloom of years 
Was parted, — and I knew again the face 
Which linger'd o'er my infancy, — so pale, 
So proud, so beautiful ! I kneel again, 
A child, and plead to that unharden'd heart, 
By all the long past hours of priceless love, 
To let my soul pass forth in penitence, 
And bless thee in its parting ! 

ISMENE. 

Never ! 

thoas (rising). 

Yes! 
Haste ere the roof shall fall, and crush the germ 
Of sweet repentance in us : take thy seat, 
And speak as thy heart dictates — 

[Drawing Ismene towards her sent. 

Hear again ! 

ISMENE. 

Unhand me — rebel son ! Assembled Chiefs, 
Ye called me — I have spoken once — I speak 
No more ; make way there ! — I must pass alone ! 

[Exit Ismexe. 
thoas (calling to Ismene). 
0! mother, stay! She's gone. [Sinks into Ms chair. 

IPHITUS. 

Her word decides, 
Unless the gods disown it. Peace ! the altar 



scene i.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

Is silent ; the last moment presses on us — 
Hyllus, the doom'd, stand forth ! 

CREUSA. 

pause ; to thee, 
Thoas, I call ; thou know'st him guiltless. 



Hold! 
No mortal passion can have utterance here, 
When Fate is audible. To yield is ours : 
Be calm as Hyllus, or forego his hand. 

[Creusa sinks on her Jcnees beside Hyllus ; Iphitus lays one hand 
on the head of Hyllus, and raises the other towards heaven. 

IPHITUS. 

Dread Power, that bade us to this fane, accept 
The expiation. 

THOAS. 

Hold thy frantic hand — 
Corinthians, save your Prince ! — You are silent. Then 
I turn to you, Athenians ! Use your power, 
Advance your swords, and teach the conquered justice. 

\_The Athenians draw their swords and advance. 
IPHITUS. 

Forbear ! 

THOAS. 

Deliver up your prisoner to my charge ; 
Let me confer with him apart ; my life 
Shall answer if I do not give you his. 

IPHITUS. 

Corinthians, give the Athenian way ; he speaks 
With power not mortal. Truth is struggling to us. 

[Exeunt all but Thoas and Hyllus. 



214 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

HTLLUS. 

Thoas, thou wilt not let Creusa think 
Her brother guilty ? 

THOAS. 

that for myself 
I could implore like grace ; but that I know 
Thou must not grant ; I have another suit 
For that which thou canst give. 

HYLLUS. 

What boon can I 
In these my number 'd moments grant to thee ? 
What wouldst thou ask ? Oblivion ? Well thou know'st 
I have not power. 

THOAS. 

Yes ; in the boon I ask, 
That blessing is included ; 'tis a thing 
Which I must shortly taste, a thing I sigh for, 
But it will have no sweetness and no worth, 
Unless it come from thee. 

HYLLUS. 

What is it ? 

THOAS. 

Death. 

HTLLUS. 

I know that one of us must die. The lot 
Has fallen on me ; and it is best. My life 
Is that of a slight stripling ; thine is rich 
In promises of greatness. 

THOAS. 

No ; most worthless — 
For it is tainted. Had my soul been base 



scbxk I.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 215 

By nature, I might seek a soldier's fortune 

Still in the field ; but noble as it was, 

It shivers at the shadow of its crime, 

And shuts itself from this world ; — in another 

\He plucks the knife from his bosom. 

It may expand unsoil'd. Behold this steel, 
Which thy brave kindness left me ; it was red 
From the paternal fountain whence thou drew 
The blood that circles in thy veins ; receive it, 
And sheath it here ! [kneels] The gods require a life 
For his, and mine alone can justly pay 
The forfeit. 

HTLLUS. 

Mine will satisfy. 

THOAS. 

No, Hyllus ; 
So paid, 'twill bring upon thy native Corinth 
A double curse ; for there is none so deadly 
As that of guiltless blood, poured out by men 
In the great name of justice. Think, think, 
What torture will be mine, when pestilence 
Lays waste thy city ; when Creusa calls 
On her slain brother, and the burning truth 
Lives ever in my spirit ; 0, be just ! 
Be merciful, and send the dagger home ! 

HTLLUS. 

I may not stain Jove's temple with thy blood. 

thoas (rising). 
Thou art right. There is a fitter spot for justice ; 
Come with me to the grove, in whose recess 
Thy father's ashes are inurn'd ; where still 



216 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act v. 

His shade is -waiting unavenged, and calls 
His son to his great duty. 



I will go. 

THOAS. 

Tis well. Now may I grasp thy hand again, 
And taste thy generous friendship ; for I feel 
The stain of blood already passing from me, 
As though the sacrifice were past. May'st thou 
And she, whom thou wilt cherish with such love 
As brothers rarely know, live happy ! 

HTLLUS. 

Never ! [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — The outside of the Funereal Grove. 
Enter two Corinthian Soldiers. 

FIRST CORINTHIAN SOLDIER. 

Comrade, hast thou heard tidings from the temple ? 

SECOND CORINTHIAN SOLDIER. 

None since the crowd withdrew from it and left 
The prince and the Athenian leader there ; 
But these may tell us more. 

Enter two Athenian Soldiers. 

FIRST CORINTHIAN SOLDIER. 

Can you instruct us 
How the strange conference, between our prince 
And him who led you, ended ? 



scene ii.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 217 

FIRST ATHENIAN SOLDIER. 

They have left 
The fane together, and have bent their way 
To the thick grove which holds the urn of Creon ; 
Take heed no evil happen to our chief, 
Or we will make a wilderness of Corinth. 

EIRST CORINTHIAN SOLDIER. 

This is the grove. They must have enter'd it 

On the western side. Ye need not fear — the prince 

Was without arms, and Thoas, in the might 

Of corporal strength, overmatches him. Hast heard 

Aught of the queen ? 

SECOND CORINTHIAN SOLDIER. 

Here comes the priest. 

Enter Iphitus. 
Dost know 
Whither the queen hath wanderd ? 

IPHITUS. 

From the fane 
Where she in wildest mood denounc'd a youth 
Whom I believe most innocent, she pac'cl 
The city, with a step so firm and brow 
So resolute, that none dar'd stay her course 
By deed or question. To the mournful glen, 
Which, if hush 'd rumours are believ'd, she lov'd 
Strangely to linger in, she bent her way ! 
Its depth was clear, — the poisonous vapour slept 
Within its frightful home ; from a tall crag, 
Whence none could stop her, I beheld her pass 
To the detested cavern ; at its entrance 
She paused an instant, cast a mournful look 






218 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. [act 

Upon the sun just setting, toss "d her arms 

Wildly towards heaven, then drew them to her breast, 

In act as if she press 'd an infant there ; 

And, as her eye, uplifted, caught a glimpse 

Of those who might prevent her, backward drew 

Into the cave, whence deadly vapours wreath'd 

Her form grown spectral. So she sunk in gloom, 

Where none dare ever tread to seek for that 

Which was Ismene ! 

Enter Ceeusa. 

creusa. 
Where is Hyllus ? where 
The Athenian chief? I hear they left the fane 
Together — they are gone to mortal conflict, — 
I'm sure on't. — Iphitus, thou art Jove's priest ; 
Fly with me, and prevent them ! [a groan from the wood. 

Heard ye that ? 
It is too late for succour. I will go, 
Though sights of horror blast me ! 

IPHITUS. 

Lady, thou 
Wilt be distracted. 

CREUSA. 

No ; there is no refuge 
In madness for a wretchedness like mine ! 
Away ! away ! Hold back, — I pass alone. 

IPHITUS. 
Let's follow. [Exeunt. 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 219 



Scene III. — The interior of the Funereal Grove. The Urn of 
Creon. The Knife bloody on its Pedestal. On one side Thoas 
wounded ; on the other, Hyllus, with face averted, and covered 
with his hands. 

THOAS. 

I bless thee ! do not mourn ; it was well done — 
Speak kindly of me as thou canst, to her — 
Thy sister. 

Enter Pentheus and Athenian Soldiers. 

PENTHEUS. 

Have I come too late ? 



No, Pentheus, 
In happy time. 

PENTHEUS. 

Alas ! but to avenge thee. 

THOAS. 

Friend, I leave nothing to avenge ; this death 

Was yielded to my prayer. Thou may'st guess well 

Why I have courted it. My brief command 

Will now devolve on thee ; but I would make 

A treaty with this youth, whom I now hail 

As King of Corinth. 'Twill be short, but sealed 

With blood : — that the Athenian troops retire, 

Laden with the rich spoils they have achiev'd, 

And leave his reign in peace. Wilt thou consent ? 

[To Hyllur. 



220 THE ATHENIAN CAPTIYE. [act v. 

HTLLUS. 

Whate'er thou wilt. 

THOAS. 

And, Pentheus, thou wilt see 
Our part fulfilled ? 

PENTHEUS. 

Thy wish shall be obeyed. 
Enter Cretjsa, followed oy Iphitus, and others. 

CRETJSA. 

Ha ! Thoas wounded ! first and only love ! 
0, cruel, cruel brother ! never more 
Be called by that dear title. 

THOAS. 

Hold, Creusa, 
I will not purchase a last ecstacy 
By such disunion. Hear me ! and Corinthians, 
Attend the dying words of him who slew 
Your king ; — with what excuse of circumstance 
You will hereafter gather from the prince, 
Whose noble tongue will speak too gently of me. 
Pentheus, thy hand ; convey me to my birthplace ; 
Her glories dawn upon me now, more clear 
Than I have ever seen them in the dreams 
Which have enrich 'd my little life ! 0, Athens ! 

[Dies. 
HYLLUS. 

Sister ! 



scene in.] THE ATHENIAN CAPTIVE. 

CRETTSA. 

Forgive me, brother. 

[She falls on his breast and bursts into teart 
HYLLUS. 

Weep there ; 'tis thy home. 
Fate, which has stricken us so young, leave this — 
That we shall cleave together to the grave. 



The curtain falls. 



GLENCOE; 



THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS. 

FIRST REPRESENTED, MAY 23, 1840. 



LOED JEFFKEY, 



WITH GRATEFUL SENSE OF HIS KINDNESS, AND PRIDE IN HIS ESTEEM, 

THIS TRAGEDY, 

EMBODYING THE FEELINGS OF HAPPY DAYS, 

■ SPENT IN THAT ROMANTIC LAND WHICH HIS DELIGHTFUL SOCIETY 
HAS ENDEARED, 

IS (WITH HIS PERMISSION) 

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 



PBEEACE. 

It seems strange that the terrible incident, which deepens 
the impression made on all tourists by the most awful 
pass of the Highlands, should not have been long ago 
made the subject of poetry or romance. Although the 
massacre which casts so deep a stain on the government 
of King William the Third, may well have been regarded 
as too shocking for dramatic effect, unless presented 
merely in the remote back-ground of scenic action, it is 
surely matter of surprise that it should not have been 
selected as a subject for Scottish romance, by the great 
Novelist who has held up its authors to just execration 
in his " History of Scotland." A deed so atrocious, per- 
petrated towards the close of the seventeenth century, 
under the sanction of a warrant, both superscribed and 
subscribed by the king, is an instance of that projection 
of the savage state into a period of growing civilisation 
which enables the novelist to blend the familiar with the 
fearful — " new manners " with "the pomp of elder days " 
— the fading superstition of antiquity with the realities 
which history verifies. To him, the treachery by which 
it was preceded — the mixture of ferocity and craft by 
which it was planned and executed — the fearful contrast 
between the gay reciprocation of social kindness, and the 
deadly purpose of the guests marking out their hosts for 
slaughter — present opportunities for interesting detail 

Q 



226 PREFACE TO GLENCOE. 

which is not within the province of the dramatist. The 
catastrophe has also a far-reaching interest, as showing 
the extermination of one of the most sturdy and united, 
although one of the smallest, of the Highland clans ; for, 
"being the most fearful of the series of measures by which 
the little sovereinties of the Highland Chiefs were 
abolished, it may well represent their general extinction, 
and the transfer of the virtues and the violence they 
sheltered from action to memory. It occurred in a scene, 
too, which, for gloomy grandeur, is not only unequalled, 
but unapproached — perhaps, unresembled — by any other 
pass in Britain ; and its solemn features, especially when 
contemplated beneath heavy clouds and amidst rolling 
mists, harmonise with the story of the horrors which 
were wrought among them. Considering, therefore, the 
delight which Sir "Walter Scott felt in animating the 
noblest scenery of his country with its most romantic 
traditions, it is difficult to account for his abstinence from 
a theme which, if adopted by him, would have been for 
ever sacred from the touch of others.* 

In the endeavour to present, in a dramatic form, the 

* Two passages only, as far as the author is aware, in the poetry and 
fiction of Sir Walter Scott, contain allusions to the massacre at Glencoe ; 
but they show how intensely he felt the atrocities committed under the 
apparent sanction, at least, ' of the government of King William. The 
following stanzas are quoted by himself from his own poems, in a note to 
his History : — 

" The hand that mingled in the meal, 
At midnight drew the felon steel, 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 

Meed for his hospitality ! 
The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand, 
At midnight arm'd it with the brand 
That bade destruction's flames expand 

Their red and fearful blazonry. 

" Then woman's shriek was heard in vain; 
Nor infancy's unpitied pain, 
More than the warrior's groan, could gain 
Respite from ruthless butchery. 



PEEFACE TO GLENCOE. 227 

feelings which the scene and its history have engendered, 
it has been found necessary to place in the foreground 
domestic incidents and fictitious characters ; only to ex- 
hibit the chief agents of the treachery, so far as essential 
to the progress of the action ; and to allow the catastrophe 
itself rather to be felt as affecting the fortunes of an indi- 
vidual family, than exhibited in its extended horrors. The 
subject presents strong temptations to mere melodramatic 
effect : it has been the wish of the author to resist these 
as much as possible ; but he can scarcely hope with entire 
success. 

In the outline of those incidents which are historical, 
the author has not ventured on any material deviation 
from the story, as related in the Fifty-eighth Chapter of 
Sir Walter Scott's " History of Scotland," where it will 
be found developed with all the vividness of that master- 
spirit of narrative* The rash irresolution of Mac Ian, in 
deferring his submission till the last moment ; his journey 
to Fort- William in the snow-storm ; his disappointment 

The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
The snows that night that cloak'd the hill, 
Though wild and pitiless, had still 

Far more than Southron clemency." 

The following passage occurs in the tale of the " Highland Widow," in 
Elspat's remonstrance to her son on his enlistment: — '" Go, put your head 
under the helt of one of the race of Dermid, whose children murdered — yes,' 
she added with a wild shriek, ' murdered your mother's fathers in their 
peaceful dwellings in Glencoe ! Yes ! ' she again exclaimed, with a wilder 
and shriller scream, ' I was then unborn, but my mother has told me ; and I 
attended to the voice of my mother ; — well I remember her words ! — They 
came in peace, and were received in friendship ; and blood and fire arose, 
and screams and murder ! ' 

" ' Mother,' answered Hamish, mournfully, but with a decided tone, ' all 
that I have thought over — there is not a drop of the blood of Glencoe on the 
noble hand of Barcaldine ;— with the unhappy house of Glenlyon the curse 
remains, and on them God hath avenged it.' " 



* By the obliging permission of the late Mr. Cadell, expressing the feelings 
of Sir Walter Scott's family, I enrich the Appendix to this volume with the 
chief part of this stirring tale. 

Q 2 



228 PREFACE TO GLENCO^. 

in finding he had sought the wrong officer ; his turning 
thence, and passing near his own house, to Inverary, 
where he arrived after the appointed day ; the acceptance 
of his oath by the sheriff of Argyle, and his return to 
enforce the allegiance of his clan to King William ; the 
arrival of Glenlyon and his soldiers in the glen ; their 
entertainment for fifteen days by the Macdonalds; the 
hypocrisy by which they veiled their purpose when 
urged to its execution by Major Duncanson ; and the 
partial execution of the murderous orders ; are all real 
features of " an ower true tale." The only deviations of 
which the author is conscious, are, the representing Alaster 
Macdonald, the younger son of Mac Ian, as a lad, instead 
of the husband of Glenlyon's niece ; and that niece as 
fostered by the widow and son of a chief of the clan, once 
the rival of Mac Ian ; and in substituting, for the foul 
traits of treachery which Sir Walter Scott imputes to 
Glenlyon, the incident of his procuring a young officer in 
his own regiment, but of the clan of the Macdonalds, to 
place the soldiers in the tracks leading from the valley 
they were commanded to surround. The character of 
Halbert Macdonald, and the incidents of his story, are 
entirely fictitious. 

As the chief interest which the author can hope that 
any will find in perusing this drama, will consist in its 
bringing to their minds the features of the stupendous 
glen to which it refers, he may be permitted to state, that 
the spot where the tower and chapel of Halbert are sup- 
posed to be placed, is beneath the summit of the great 
mountain Bedin ; towards which a huge gully leads, or 
seems to lead, from the bed of the river, and where, en- 
closed amidst the black rocks, in the darkness of which 
that gully is lost, far above the glen may be the site of 
such a rude dwelling. The house of Mac Ian is supposed 
to be — where, no doubt, it was — in the lower and wider 



PKEFACE TO GLENCOE. 229 

part of the glen, where, by the side of the Cona, the wild 
myrtle grows in great profusion, about two miles to the 
south-east of Loch Leven. In other respects, as far as 
vivid impressions, frequently renewed, have enabled the 
author, he has endeavoured to recal to the recollection of 
those who have visited Glencoe the subsisting features of 
its scenery ; although he cannot place implicit confidence 
in those impressions, when he finds a writer like Pennant 
asserting of the glen, that "its mountains rise on each side 
perpendicularly to a great height from a flat narrow 
bottom ; so that, in many places, they seem to hang over, 
and make approaches as they aspire towards each other." 
To his memory, Glencoe seems not a narrow defile, as this 
description would import, but a huge valley between 
mountains of rock, receding from each other till a field 
of air of several miles' breadth lies between their sum- 
mits : of which, the last time he saw it, three young 
eagles, rising from the coarse heather at the head of 
the pass, near King's-house, took and kept delighted 
possession. 



PERSONS OF THE DEAMA. 



Mac Ian, Chief of the Clan of the Macdonalds of Glencoe. 
John Macdonald, eldest Son of Mac Ian. 
Alaster Macdonald, youngest Son of Mac Ian — a youth. 
Halbert Macdonald, Nephew of Mac Ian — Son of a deceased 

Chief. 
Henry Macdonald, younger Brother of Halbert. 

Angus, •» 

„ > Old Men of the Clan of the Macdonalds of Glencoe. 

Donald, J 

Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, commonly called Glenlyon, 
Captain of a detachment of the Earl of ' Argyle 's Regiment. 

Lindsay, an Officer under Glenlyon' s command. 

Drummond, a Sergeant in the Regiment. 

Kenneth, an old Servant of Mac Ian. 

A Catholic Priest. 

Lady Macdonald, Mother of Halbert and Henry. 

Helen Campbell, an Orphan protected by Lady Macdonald, Niece 
to Glenlyon. 

Clansmen, Officers, Soldiers, &c. 



Scene — Glencoe, and the neighbouring banks of Loch Leven. 

Time— January, 1689. 

The first Two Acts occupy one night and the following morning. 
There is an interval of a fortnight between the action of the Second and 
Third Acts :— the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Acts comprise the action of 
the three succeeding days. 



GLENCOE; 



OK, 

THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — The Hall in the House of Mac Ian in Glencoe. — Mid- 
night. — A turf fire owning. — Storm heard without. — John 
Macdonald discovered sitting pensively at a table; Alaster 
pacing the room. 



Let me entreat you, Alaster, to sleep ; 

Three nights of feverish waking, at your age, 

May spoil you for a watchman ; for your nerves, 

Undisciplined by care, throb many hours, 

While those of elder and sedater spirits, 

Ruled by the time, count one. Rest those slight limbs 

On yonder couch of heather ; — I would pledge 

My word to rouse you at the first faint tread 

Which may announce your father, but 'twere needless ; 

In deepest slumber it will stir your heart, 

And rouse you to his arms. 



232 GLENCOE; OR, [act i. 

ALASTER. 

How can I sleep ? 
How can you wish that I should sleep, when night 
Succeeds to night, and still the unconquer'd wind, 
Laden with snow and hailstones, dashes round us, 
As if in scorn of Highlanders, content 
To yield the fastnesses in which it held 
Joint empire with our sires ; and still the fear 
That it has dealt its vengeance on the head 
We love increases, — with the time o'erpast 
For sad and shameful travel ? 

JOHN. 

Alaster, 
I must not hear you blend those words with aught 
Our sire resolved. You did not guess the war 
Of fierce emotions that, within his frame 
Unshaken, raged, as time brought nigh the hour 
When he must plight his faith to England's king, 
Or to the power of unrelenting foes 
Yield up his clansmen. While the sky was clear, 
With wavering purpose he inclined to wait 
His doom at home ; but when the snow-storm hurl'd 
Its icy arrows through the hills, the woes 
Of roofless desolation all would share 
Shriek'd at his heart, and peril lent a show 
Of honour to the journey, which had else 
Seem'd shameful ; — so he girt him to the task 
As to a doom'd man's office. If we lose 
All else, we will preserve our household laws ; 
Nor let the licence of these fickle times 
Subvert the holy shelter which command 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 233 

Of fathers, and undoubting faith of sons, 
Rear'd for our shivering virtues. You o'erstep 
The province of a Highland chieftain's son ; 
You must not judge your father. 

ALASTER. 

It is true, 
And I submit me to your chiding : still 
Tis hard to own new tyranny ; to shrink 
Before its threats ; to feel the Highland heart 
Shrivel and die within my frame, nor strike 
One blow for ancient sovereignty and honour. 

JOHN. 

I grant that it is hard ; but if the blow 

Be without hope, 'tis nobler to forbear, 

Nor buy a glorious moment with the blood 

Of trusting clansmen. Would you know what virtue 

Endurance may possess, when action fails, 

Look at our cousin Halbert ! — To your eye, 

Whose memory reaches not his fiery boyhood, 

He seems distinguish'd only by that charm 

Of courtesy which hearted kindness sheds 

Through simplest manners, and an aspect grave 

Which these huge rocks impress upon the port 

Of him who loves them. You have often seen 

Our father to his greeting make return 

Of scoff or withering silence, which he bears 

In gentlest mood ; — yet once his soul was passion'd 

With wilder rage than even your ardent youth 

Can guess ; but I err now ; for I o'erstep 

An old injunction not to tell his story, 

Till manhood fitted you to hear it. 



234 GLENCOE; OR, [act i. 

ALASTER. 

Manhood ! 

JOHN. 

I did not mean to ruffle you. Your years, 
Though few, have been instructed by distress, 
And I admit your title to the cares 
And knowledge happier fortunes had deferr'd. 
Sit, then, and listen. Halbert's father once 
With ours contested who might claim descent 
From eldest line of ancestry, and right 
To chieftainship and lands. Fierce conflicts held 
The claim in doubt, till old Macdonald fell 
Stricken for death ; — then, conscious that his sons, 
Halbert, the eldest-born, about your age, 
And Henry, a slight stripling, scarcely twelve, 
Could ill sustain the quarrel, or protect 
Their mother in her sorrow, sent the priest 
Who shrived him, to entreat his rival's hand 
In peace, — with offer to resign his claims, 
So that the blacken'd tower in which he lay, 
Its ruin'd chapel, the small niche of rock 
In which they are embraced as in a chasm 
Eent 'neath our loftiest peak by ancient storm, 
And some scant pastures on Loch Leven's side, 
Were ratified as Halbert's. To this pact 
I was a witness, and the scene lives now 
Before me. — In a room where flickering light 
Strove through the narrow openings of huge walls, 
On a low couch, Macdonald's massive form 
Lay stretch 'd ; — with folded arms our father stood 
Awed by the weakness of the foe so late 
His equal ; the expiring warrior raised 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 235 

His head, and catching from the eager looks 
Of the wan lady who had wiped the dew 
Of anguish from his forehead, argument 
To quell all scruple, solemnly rehearsed 
The terms, and, as his dying prayer, implored 
Halbert to keep them. 

ALASTER. 

So he yielded ? 

JOHN. 

No ; 
One flush of crimson from the hair which curl'd 
Crisply around his brows, suffused his face 
And throat outspread with rage ; — he slowly raised 
His dirk ; and, though the agony which swell'd 
His heaving breast prevented speech, we read 
In his dilated nostril, eyes that flash'd 
With fire that answer'd to the uplifted steel, 
And lips wide-parted for the sounds which strove 
In vain to reach their avenue, a vow 
Qf never-resting warfare ; — so he stood 
Rigid as marble, of his mother's face 
Turn'd on him from her knees — of the wild fear 
Which struck his gamesome brother sad, — of all 
Unconscious. While we waited for his words, 
Another voice, from the deep shade that gloom'd 
Beyond the death-bed, came ; — and midst it, stood 
The squalid figure of a woman, wrought 
Beyond the natural stature as she stretch 'd 
Her wither'd finger towards the youth, and spoke — 
" Halbert, obey ! the hour which sees thee rule 
O'er the Macdonalds of Glencoe shall bring 



236 GLENCOE; OR, [act i 

Dismay and death:" — then glided from the room. 
He did not start, but as his ears drank in 
The sounds, his colour vanish'd from his face ; 
The light forsook his eyes ; his nerveless hand 
Released the dirk ; he sank on trembling knees, 
Beside the couch, and with a child's soft voice 
Said, "I obey " — and bow'd his head to take 
His father's blessing, who fell back and died 
When he had murmur'd it. The youth arose 
Sedate, and, turning to his mother, said, 
" I live for you." Since then he has remain 'd 
What you have known him. 

ALASTER. 

What was she who wrought 
This awful change ? 

JOHN. 

Have you not heard of Moina ? 
Although she has not since that day been seen 
Within our vale, her awful figure glared 
On the remotest infancy of men 
Who now are reckon'd old. Her age alone 
Would make the obscurest thread of human life 
Drawn out, though many births and deaths of hope, 
A thing to tremble at ; — 'tis said she gazed 
On that best piece of heavenly workmanship — 
Our Mary's beauty, when the squalid queen 
Of England foully marr'd it ; some offence 
Or mighty sorrow now forgotten drew 
Her life into deep solitude. Preserved 
By her majestic bearing from the grasp 
Of law, she owns the power to pierce the veil 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

Of mortal vision ; — the sole tie she knows 
To this world is a kindred with our race, 
From which she sprung ; — yet only giant griefs 
Borne or foreshadow'd have the power to stir 
Her dull affections, or to invite her steps 
From the rude hovel where she dwells alone 
Far on the mountain plain, within the round 
Of stones which point death's ancient victories 
O'er nameless heroes. Whether earnest thought 
Arid long communion with the hills whose moan 
Foretells the tempest, taught her first to break 
The bondage of the present, or worse aid 
Hath given her might, I cannot tell ; pray Heaven 
That you may never cross her ! 

ALASTER. 

Her strange words 
Fell lightly on the younger son, whose acts 
Of boyish prowess wrought in frolic mood 
I once admired ; — has anything been heard 
Of that gay scapegrace ? 

JOHN. 

No ; — he could not brook 
The dullness of his home, though not uncheer'd 
By female charms ; for there the lovely child 
Of brave Hugh Campbell, whom Macdonald loved, 
Spite of the hatred that he bore his clan, 
Has, from the opening of her youth's first blossom, 
Found shelter ; — and no fairer Scotland boasts 
Than Helen Campbell. If young Henry lives, 
Be sure you'll find him on the sunny side 
Of fortune's favour. — Hark ! the Cona's roar ! 



238 GLENCOE; OR, [act i. 

It bursts the icy chains which long have held it, 
And riots in wild freedom. 

ALASTER. 

'Twill destroy 
The slender bridge below us. Should our father 
Approach that way ! — I will not linger thus. 

JOHN. 

He bade me wait him here. Ho ! Kenneth ! [calling] 
Run ! 

Enter Kenneth. 
Swift to the bridge, it may be yours to save 

Your chief. [Exit Kenneth. 

His journey will not lie that way, 
Yet horrors thicken round us. 'Mid the roar 
Methinks I hear a step — it comes — alas ! 
'Tis not Mac Ian's. 

Enter Halbert Macdonald. 

Halbert, I have scarce 
The power to bid you welcome as I ought ; 
We are sad watchers for our sire's return, 
And almost blame the footsteps of a friend 
Which might be his. 

halbert. 
I came to ask of him ; — 
For having cross'd him on Loch Leven's shore 
Three nights ago, scarce two miles hence, I heard 
With wonder the report which found its way 
To our lone dwelling but to-night, that still 
He was abroad. 



scene i.J THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 239 

ALASTEE. 

Are you assured 'twas he ? 
Did he address you ? 

HALBERT. 

Alaster, you know 
How rarely he will grace me with a word ; 
But this is not a season for a thought, 
Save of his peril. I had made my way, 
Breasting the hurricane, in hope to lead 
Our herd to shelter ere the night should add 
Dark terrors to the storm : in blackening mist 
I saw a mantle flicker ; then the hairs 
Of a white head, which stream'd along the wave 
Of flying vapour ; swift I ran to aid 
Some aged wanderer's steps, and cried aloud. 
He fled before me, till my fleeter limbs 
O'ertook him ; then he faced me ; — 'twas your father ; 
A look, in which strong anguish baffled scorn, 
He fix'd upon me; waved his arm aloft, 
In action that forbade pursuit, and took 
The pathway to Loch Etive. I believed 
He only wish'd to shun me, and that done, 
He would turn homeward. 

ALASTER. 

If indeed 'twas he, 
And not a spectral image of his mould : 
He fears to meet the faces of his friends 
After his oath to William. 

HALBERT. 

If he lives, 
That oath is past ; and being past, dear cousin, 



240 GLENCOE; OR, [act i. 

Let it not prompt a word which may add pangs 
To a brave spirit's shame. At earliest dawn 
I'll search each cavern'd nook within our glen, 
Nor leave a crevice which the smallest rill 
Has hollow'd, unexplored. I know them all ; 
So haply I may find the reverend chief 
Crouch 'd in some narrow cave, — his stately head 
In resignation bow'd upon his staff, 
And waiting, without struggle, the last chill 
Of slowly freezing death ; — may lead him home, 
And win one cordial pressure of his hand, 
To speak he owns me true. 

JOHN. 

A footstep ! — hush ! 

Enter Angus. 
Angus at such an hour ! 

ANGUS. 

A fearful summons 
From a shrill voice, between the tempest's gusts, 
Call'd me to meet my chief. 

JOHN. 

Would he were here ! 
He comes even now [listening]. No. 

Enter Donald. 

This is terrible! 

DONALD. 

Is not Mc Ian here ? I came to meet him ; 
Roused from my bed by such a piercing cry 
As rarely syllables a human name ! 

JOHN. 

You hear ! 



I 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 241 

Other old Clansmen enter. 

JOHN. 

I ask not why you come : I know 
Some mortal tidings linger on the storm, 
And ye are met. to share them. Let them come : 
We can but die ! 

HALBERT. 

Heaven fit us to endure ! 

JOHN. 

Another step ; I know it well ! — 'tis his ! 
Pray you withdraw awhile ; but go not hence. 

[Halbert and the Clansmen retire to the end of the Room. 
Enter Mac Ian. 
mac IAN. 

Still watching ? — you too, Alaster ? What care 
My absence must have brought you ! My dear sons, 
Do not despise your father, who returns 
The subject of King William. 

JOHN. 

All you do 
Must have our reverence. Let me bring you wine. 

MAC IAN. 

No ; it would choke me. I must drain no more 
The goblet to assuage the patriot glow 
Of love and pride ; I may not drink to Him 
Whose ancestry my own revered ; and wine 
Were poison to me now. 

ALASTER. 

Is all then past? 



242 GLENCOE ; OE, [act i. 

MAC IAN. 

It is ; and sad as was the task, the way 

Was worthy of its end. When through deep snow 

I reach'd Fort- William, nerved to take the oath 

Before the General, — I was told his office 

Did not allow him to record it : thence 

I was compell'd to struggle through the storm 

To Inverary, where the sheriff deign'd, 

Although beyond the appointed time, to seal 

The degradation of our race. I pass'd 

Within two miles of this beloved home, 

And dared not turn to it. 

halbert {speaking to Angus oehind). 

'Twas there I met him. 

MAC IAN. 

Who spoke ? Is he who track'd me in the storm 

Come as a spy, upon my sad return, 

To gaze upon my sorrow ? Let him face me ! 

halbert {coming forward). 
I came not to offend you. 

JOHN. 

No; — he came 
In terror for your safety. 

MAC IAN. 

Said he so ? 
Nay, Halbert, look yourself ; scant powers are left 
To grace the seat you wait for, yet my son 
Shall fill it after me. Declare your wish 
To rend it from us ; — 'twere a nobler course 
Than that you follow. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 243 

HALBERT. 

Sir, you do me wrong ; 
I boast no virtue when I claim content 
With that which you have left me ; — would not change 
My naked turret, in its mountain hold, 
Reach 'd by the path along whose rugged steeps 
Discord and envy climb not, for the fields 
Rich Inverary in its scornful groves 
Embosoms ; and to me the mouldering walls 
Of its small chapel wear the glory yet 
Of consecration which they took from prayers 
Of the first teachers, though a thousand storms 
Have drench'd and shaken them. Forgive me, sir : 
I have a patrimony which forbids 
Envy of yours. 

MAC IAN. 

You hear — even now he taunts me ; — 
Do you believe that show of meekness cheats 
A soldier's eye ? — that we esteem your thoughts 
Subdued to habits of a herdsman's life, 
And all the passion and the pride of youth 
Subdued to peace ? 

HALBERT. 

I strive to conquer them, 
And not in vain. You think that strange ; if day 
Illumed the glen, I'd show you, from your door, 
A shapeless rock, which, thence observed, presents 
No mark to give it preference o'er the mass 
Of mountain ruin ; — yet from upward gaze 
Of the slow traveller, as he drags his steps 
Through yon dark pass, it shuts the mighty gorge 
Above with all its buttresses ; its lake, 

r2 



244 GLEXCOE; OE, [act 

Black with huge shadows ; and its jagged heights, 
Which tempt the arrowy lightning from its track 
To sport with kindred terrors. So, by grace 
Of Heaven, each common object we regard 
With steadiness, can veil the dark abodes 
Of terrible remembrance at whose side 
Fierce passions slumber, and supply to hope 
The place of airiest pinnacles it shades. 
Thus, sir, it is with me. 

JOHN. 

Believe it, father ; 
Indeed 'tis true. 

MAC IAN. 

Perhaps I do you wrong ; 
We'll speak of this to-morrow, when I meet 
The eldest clansmen, and with shame, enforce 
Their new allegiance. 

JOHN. 

They await you now. 

MAC IAN. 

Here ? — I must face them ; — tell them to approach. 

[Mac Ian takes his seat; — John beckons the old Clansmen, 
who surround it. 

I have cold welcome for you, friends ; you come 
To share the wreck of the Macdonalds. I, 
The most unhappy of the race, have journey 'd 
To make the final sacrifice. I felt 
Resistance, with our deaths, would glut the hate 
Of Scottish minions bribed by England's gold ; 

And I have sworn relate it for me, John, 

I cannot tell it ! 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 245 

JOHN. 

To secure your lives 
My father perill'd his ; — and yesternight, 
At Inverary, pledged our faith to William. 

Enter Kenneth wildly. 

KENNETH. 

Too late ! too late ! 

HALBERT. 

What mean those awful words ? 
Is all his anguish vain ? 

kenneth {seeing Mac Ian). 
No, he is safe ! 
Why start ye ? — though the bridge is swept away, 
Our chiefs unharm'd. 

HALBERT. 

And thus you welcome him, 
With words which freeze the soul ! You meant no ill ; 
Yet death is in your words. 



to Mac Ian). 
Forgive me. 

MAC IAN. 

Bise; 
I'm arm'd for any ill, unless it fall 
On these, my life's last comforts. 

[Looking on John and Alaster. 
HALBERT. 

Sir, farewell ! 
When peril comes — as come it will — regard 
The meanest clansman's life less cheap than his 
Whose loyalty you wrong. [Exit halbert. 



246 GLENCOE ; OR, [act ii. 

mac ian (to the Clansmen). 

Good night, my friends. 

[Exeunt Kenneth and Clansmen. 

Come near me, children ; — I can scarcely bear 
To look into your faces. You forgive me ? 

johist. 
Forgive ! We honour and revere you. Bless us ! 

[John and Axastee kneel, one on each side of Mac Ian's 
chair. He lays his hands on their heads. 

MAC IAN. 

There ; — we are knotted now to live or die. 

{The drop scene falls. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — TJie Rail of Ralberfs Tower. Time — Daybreak. 

Eater Lady Macdonald with a Letter, followed by Drummond, 
in the uniform of the Earl of Ar gyle's Regiment, 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Thanks for your pains. Let me devour again 

The precious characters. [Reads.] " I come, dear mother, 

Raised to high favour and command, to take 

My quarters in your vale." The morn's faint light 

Had scarce enabled eyes less glad than mine 

To read; — they are dazzled now. [To the soldier.] Pray 

you go in : 
We have poor entertainment to bestow, 
But our best cheer is yours. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 247 

DRUMMOND. 

I must return 
Upon the instant ; shall I bear your answer ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

There is no need ; he speeds ; his eager wish, 
If I may judge it by my own, will add 
Wings to his swiftness. Yet a moment stay ; 
Know you the writer of these lines, my son, — 
Is he of gallant port ? 

SOLDIER. 

Our regiment's pride, 
And first in favour of G-lenlyon. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Take 
A happy mother's thanks. {Exit Soldier. 

I shall behold 
A hero whom I parted from a child ; 
Trace in his lineaments the hints which gave 
Sure promise of his manhood ; shall enjoy 
In one rich hour the pleasures which are spread 
Through years to her who watches the degrees 
Of youth's expanding brightness. Where is Halbert ? 
Where Helen ? She will laugh with wildest glee 
To find her little playmate a plumed soldier, 
And share his mirth. No gaiety like his 
Has cheer'd her since he left us. She is here. 

Enter Helen Campbell. 

HELEN. 

So early raised to meet the morning's frost ? 



248 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I feel no frost ; the ecstacy within me 

Clothes all without with summer ; you shall share 

In joy which seldom visits these old walls. 

HELEN. 

say not so ; — there's not a day but bears 

Its blessing on its light. If nature doles 

Her gifts with sparing hand, their rareness sheds 

Endearments her most bounteous mood withholds 

From greenest valleys. The pure rill which casts 

Its thread of snow-like lustre o'er the rock, 

Which seems to pierce the lowering sky, connects 

The thoughts of earth with heaven, while mightier floods 

Roar of dark passions. The rare sunbeam wins 

For a most slight existence human care, 

While it invests some marble heap with gleams 

Of palaced visions. If the tufts of broom 

Whence fancy weaves a chain of gold, appear, 

On nearer visitation, thinly strewn, 

Each looks a separate bower, and offers shade 

To its own group of fairies. The prized harebell 

Wastes not its dawning azure on a bank 

Rough and confused with loveliness, but wears 

The modest story of its gentle life 

On leaves that love has tended ; nay, the heath, 

Which, slowly from a stinted root, unfolds 

Pale lilac blossoms, — image of a maid 

Rear'd tenderly in solitude, — is bless'd, 

Instead of sharing with a million flowers 

One radiant flush, in offering its faint bloom 

To loving eyes. Say not again, dear lady, 

That joy but seldom visits these old walls. 



scene I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Not while they shelter you, my lovely child ; 
But new joy waits us ; you have not forgotten 
Our careless Henry ? 

HELEN. 

No ! — forgotten Henry ! 
But he has long forgotten us ; no message 
Has told us of his welfare, since he found us 
Too sad for his companions. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Pardon in him, 
As I do, young ambition's upward gaze, 
Which, fix'd upon the future, cannot turn 
To glance upon the distant and the past. 

HELEN. 

Is it indeed so, madam ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You are grave now— 
You who are joyous in our weariest clays. 
Be glad ; for Henry will this day return 
To charm us with his merriment. 



To-day ? 
Henry return to-day ! Speak once again 
That blessed news ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

He comes to-day, upraised 
In Argyle's regiment to command, and graced 
With favour of Glenlyon. 



250 GLENCOE; OK, [act ii. 

HELEN. 

Of my uncle ? 
Whom, never seen, I image a stern soldier 
Who, living to obey and to command, 
Allows no impulses but these which guide 
Along the rocky, strait, untinted channel, 
That discipline has hewn. If Henry wins 
Favour from him, he'll win the hearts of all. 
Comes he alone ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

His troop is quarter'd with us, 
To taste in peace our simple Highland fare, 
And feel our Highland welcome. But I long 
For Halbert's presence ; though he does not love 
The clansmen of Argyle, he must rejoice 
In Henry's fortune. 

HELEN. 

He has not return 'd 
Since, yestere'en, he left us to inquire 

The issue of Mac Ian's journey. 

« 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You 
Alarm me ; — not return'd ? 



Fear not for Halbert ; 
You know he loves to wander at all hours, 
And, ever present to himself, will rule 
His course in safety. Is that he ? The step 
Is hurried ; yet it should be his. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 251 

Enter Halbert, greatly agitated ; — throws himself into a seat. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My son, 
What ails you ? Speak ! 

HALBERT. 

I will — soon — presently; 
Ha ! Mother ! Helen ! safe ; — thank Heaven ! Has 

nothing 
To-night appall 'd you ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Nothing. 

HALBERT. 

That is strange. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

What has befallen us ? Is Mac Ian dead ? 

HALBERT. , 

No ; he survives ; he has only lost the thing 
Which makes life precious ! — Euin yawns for all — 
Poor fated clansmen ! I have heard again 
Old Moina's voice. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Her voice who spake when death — 

halbert (laying his hand on her arm). 
Mother ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

He shivers as with ague. Speak, my son ! 

HALBERT. 

Yes — it is over now. — I'll tell you all, 
As far as words can tell it. As I left 



252 GLENCOE ; OR, [act n. 

Mac Ian's door, and pierced the mist, which clung 
Around me like a shroud, that voice shriek 'd forth 
Close at mine ear, " The Hour is nigh !" — Each cliff, 
Pillar, and cavern, echo'd hack the words, 
Till they appear'd to fill the glen with sound, 
As floods from thousand streams might deluge it. 
'Twas no delusion ; surely as you hear 
My voice, I heard them. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You have mused, my son, 
In dismal solitudes on ancient tales 
Till each wild pass is haunted, and the wind, 
Struggling within a mountain gully, moans 
Or shrieks with prophecy. 

HALBERT. 

No ! — It transfiVd me 
As with an arrow, — when it sunk, still night 
Held its breath, waiting terrors ! 'Neath the moon 
Our three huge mountain bulwarks stood in light, 
Strange, solemn, spectral ; — not as if they tower'd 
Majestic into heaven, but hoar and bow'd 
Beneath the weight of centuries ; and each 
Sent forth a sound as of a giant's sigh : 
Then, from their feet the mists arising, grew 
To shapes resembling human, till I traced, 
Dimly reveal'd among the ghastly train, 
Familiar forms of living clansmen, dress'd 
In vestments of the tomb ; — they glided on, 
While strains of martial music from afar 
Mock'd their sad flight. — 

[A distant band heard playing " The Campbells are coming." 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 253 

I hear that music now, — 
The same — the same — Do you not hear it, Helen ? 
Mother ? 

HELEN. 

I hear a lively strain which speaks 
Approaching soldiers, who'll make winter bright, 
And fill our vale with gladness. 

HALBERT. 

There is death 
In those blithe sounds ; — I know them now ; — the tune 
Which wakes the shallow heart of false Argyle, 
Hollow and cruel ever. 

HELEN. 

Yet there's one 
Who owns that clan, you would not spurn ! 

HALBERT. 

Sweet girl ! 
Your beauty, early sever'd from its stem, 
And planted in an honest soil, retains 

No Vestige Of its Origin. [The music is heard approaching. 

Yet nearer ! 
Look not on me with those beseeching eyes ; \To Helen. 
I will enjoy it ; His a gallant strain : 
See, Helen, how you mould me ; — I can smile now. 

HELEN. 

And you shall smile ; while you have been enthrall'd 
By dismal fancies, we have heard sweet news 
Of our long-sigh'd-for Henry. 

HALBERT. 

Of my brother ? 
Shall we embrace him soon ? 



254 GLENCOE; OK, [act ii. 

HELEN. 

We hope to-day. 

HALBERT. 

Then I will cast all sadness from my thoughts, 
And own these portents idle ; — my fair brother, 
Who in staid manhood made me feel a child, 
While I instructed him with tiny arm 
To brave the torrent to its whirling pool 
O'er rocky ledge descending ! I am a boy 
Again in thinking of it. 

Enter Henry Macdonald in the dress of an officer of the Earl of 
Argyle's regiment ; Halbert starts and stands apart ; Lady 
Macdonald eagerly embraces Henry. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

0, most welcome ! 

halbert (apart). 
A soldier of Argyle ! a purchased slave 
To his poor country's foes ! Would he had lain, 
In all the glory of his youth, a corpse, 
Or I had died first ! 

helen (laying her hand imploringly on Halbert's). 
Halbert, speak to him. 

HALBERT. 

Yes ; — I'll not dash that bonnet from his brow ; 
Right, right — I'll speak to him. My brother ! 

[Henry embraces Halbeet, who receives him coldly. 

HENRY. 

Stiff 

And melancholy grown ! These rugged walls 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 255 

Have shed their sullen gloom into your nature, 
And made my welcome cold. 

HALBERT. 

These walls are sacred — 
Fit home for honest poverty; 'twere well 
If you had never left them. 

henry {approaching Helen). 

They contain 
One form of radiant loveliness ; — is this 
My some-time playmate Helen ? You are silent ; 
You do not bid me welcome. 

HELEN. 

Welcome, Henry? 
It is because my heart's too full of welcome 
To breathe its joy in words. 

halbert {apart). 

So fond ! so free ! 
This stripling will engage the care of all 
Within my little w 7 orld ; — for shame ! the thought 
Is selfish and most base ; I must suppress it, — [Aloud. 
You'll spend some time, I hope, in these poor walls, 
And teach us to be gay ? 

henry. 

Our regiment mean 
To teach your clan the finest of all lessons — 
The art of spending life. We hope to raise 
Strange echoes of delight among your mountains. 
Let your old men prepare their choicest tales 
Of ancient wars ; your lads their sinews brace 
For noontide games and midnight dances ; bid 



256 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

Your maidens' hearts be stout, for we shall lay 
Fair siege to some of them. Your mansion, brother, 
Will not be colder, if you'll deign to share 
A soldier's purse. 

[Heney offers a 'purse to Halbebt, who is about to dash it on the 
ground, but restrains his passion; pauses and returns it. 
They speak apart from Lady Macdonald and Helen. 

HALBERT. 

Remove it from my sight, 
Lest it provoke my curse upon the gold, 
Which, having tempted Scotland's peers to sell 
Their country, pass'd through treacherous hands to yours. 

HENRY. 

Through treacherous hands ! I will not hear that said : 
Expend your spleen on me ; but speak a word 
Disgraceful to the officers I serve, 
And though my brother, you shall answer it. 

HALBERT. 

You make me smile now. I will answer it. 

I must have speedy speech with you, where none 

Shall break upon us. 

HENRY. 

At my earliest leisure. 
[ToLadyMacdonald.] Mother, my duty calls me hence 

awhile, 
To hear my captain's orders. Helen, soon 
I shall reclaim old friendship. 

[Apart to halbeet.] In an hour, 
Upon Loch Leven's margin, in the shade 
Of the first rock, expect me. 

HALBERT. 

Do not fail. [Exit Henby. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 257 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Come, Helen, let us see the tower prepared 
To feast our noble soldier and his friends. 
Is he not all a mother's hope could image ? 

HELEN. 

He is, he is ; — at first he scarcely knew me ; 
Changed as he is, I had not mistaken him 
Among a host of heroes ! 

{Exeunt Helen and Lady Macdonald. 
H ALBERT (alone). 

Down, wild rage ! 
My rebel passions ought to fright me more 
Than night's grim phantoms. I had deem'd my temper 
Proof 'gainst all griefs, all injuries, all scorns ; 
But this — my brother self-sold to our foes ! — 
I must be conqueror still. [Looks out.] 0, blessed star 
Of morning, do you wait upon that cone 
Whose whiteness mocks our marble, to renew 
The calm thy fields of azure can impart 
To thoughts of earth's brief struggles ? Linger yet ! 
It sinks ; 'tis gone ; its peace is in my soul. 

[Exit Halbebt. 



Scene II. — A Boom in a Highland House in Glencoe. — Sentinels 
seen pacing hefore the Windows. — Glenlyon, Lindsay, and 
other Officers of ArgyWs Regiment. 

GLENLYON. 

These are rough quarters for the winter, friends ; 
But let us make them jocund — find the huts 
Which yield the warmest shelter from the snow, 



258 GLENCOE; OR, [act ii. 

And let our stores of wine and brandy pay 
The courtesies we win. Tis easy service. 

LINDSAY. 

Is nothing more intended here than feasting ? 

GLENLYON. 

Lindsay, I fain would hope not ; we shall wait 
For final orders. Now, our duty's plain — 
To win the favour of our hosts ; — if more 
Should be commanded, 'twill be ours to do it. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 
You know this glen, Macdonald : to your charge 
I leave disposal of the soldiers ; place them 
Where frankest entertainment will be given. 

HENRY. 

The entertainment may be coarse, but given 
With heartiest welcome. I shall grant a boon 
To every clansman in whose hut I place 
One of my gallant comrades. 

GLENLYON. 

See all lodged, 
And then report to me. This hut be mine. 

HENRY. 

May I retire ? I must redeem a pledge 
Within this hour. 

GLENLYON. 

An old acquaintance found ? 
You have my leave, sir. \Exit henry. 

Some one knocks ; attend ; 
Who waits ? 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 259 

Enter Drummond. 

DRUMMOND. 

Mac Ian's sons are at the door, 
And ask to see you. 

GLENLYON. 

Ha ! — of course admit them. 

[Exit Drummond. 

The children of the stubborn chief who dared 
Accuse our loftiest nobles that they filch 'd 
The money sent to buy the peace of Scotland ! 
I'd thank him for a brawl. Your pleasure with me ? 

Enter John and Alaster. 

JOHN. 

We bear Mac Ian's greeting to Glenlyon ; 
He trusts you come in friendship, now his oath 
To William is recorded. 

GLENLYON. 

How ! recorded ? 

ALASTER. 

Yes ; by the Sheriff of Argyle. We tell 
The fact, not boast it. 

GLENLYON. 

You speak boldly, sir ; 
A spirited young Highlander, i' faith : 
Let me enlist you in our troop ; we teach 
Some manners that you lack. 

ALASTER. 

And let me lack them, 
Ere I endure your teaching. 

s2 



260 GLENCOE ; OK, [act ii. 

JOHN. 

Alaster ! 
Forbear. 

GLENLTON. 

0, let him speak. The oath is taken ? 

JOHN. 

It is : though the appointed day had pass'd, 
Yet, as mere error and the storm produced 
The slight delay, it was forgiven. 

GLENLTON. 

Well! 
Your father acted prudently at last : 
Within you'll taste some wine, and tell me how 
His journey prosper'd. 

JOHN. 

Sir, you have not made 
Eeply to my sole question ; — do you come 
To visit us in friendship ? 

GLENLTON. 

Friendship ? Surely — 
Fort- William's garrison, too small to hold 
Our regiment, sends us beggars to request 
Your hospitable greetings. 

JOHN. 

They are yours, 
And all our glen can offer shall attend them. 

GLENLYON. 

Your hand. [To Alaster.] And yours ; — you'll be s 

Soldier yet. {Exeunt. 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 



Scene III. — The Banks of Loch Leven. 
Enter Henry. 

HENRY. 

First at the place ! — the morning's cold ; — I wish 
The quarrel were with other than the man 
I wait for ; but of all the useless things 
Which form the business of the world, regret 
Is the most idle. Yet, I wish 'twere past. — 
He's here. 

Enter Halbert. 

I have but little time to spend, 
And the air freezes. Let's to work at once. 
Select your ground, sir. 

HALBERT. 

Do you mock me, Henry, 
With this vain show of courage ? 

HENRY. 

I came hither 
Upon your summons, as I thought, to end 
A soldier's quarrel with a soldier's sword ; 
But if you can restrain the bitter speech 
To which I must not listen, I prefer 
To take your hand in kindness — As you will. 



Did I not feel that I have power to pierce 
Through that cold bravery to the heart within it, 



262 GLENCOE ; OK, [act ii. 

I might relieve you of some frolic blood 
Which makes the front of your rebellion proud. 

HENRY. 

Eebellion ! 

HALBERT. 

Have you not rebell'd at once 
Against your clan, your country, and the tomb 
Of a brave father who embraced in you 
The darling of his age ? Behold his sword 
You now defy, — your plaything while he talk'd 
Of noble daring, till you paused from sport 
To hear and weep. Its sight should wound you now 
More than its edge could. What would be his grief 
Could he behold you in that hated dress, 
Link'd to the foes of Scotland ! 0, my brother, 
Why did you this ? 

HENRY. 

If you intend to ask 
What urged me to take service with Argyle, 
I answer you at once. — My eagle spirit, 
Which wanted air to soar in ; frank disdain 
Of dull existence, which had faintly gleam'd, 
Like yonder Serpent- river, through dark rocks 
Which bury it ; ambition for a lot 
Which places life and death upon a cast, 
And makes the loser glorious. Not for me 
The sullen pride of mouldering battlements, 
Or rites of tottering chapel. 

HALBERT. 

Is it so ? 
Is ancient sanctity, which sheds its grace 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2G c c 

Upon the infant's sportive hours, and cleaves 

To the old warrior when he falls, a thing 

To mock at ? But I wrong you there : I know 

Your heart then spoke not. I could cherish pride 

In your gay valour, if a generous cause 

Had won its aid ; — nay, deeming Scotland lost, 

If you had sought your fortune at the court 

Of England, I had borne it ; — but to join 

With our domestic traitors — men who know 

The rights they sell ; who understand the ties 

Which, through the waste of centuries, cement 

Our clans, and give the sacred cord one life 

Of reverential love ; for whom these hills 

On the clear mirror of their childhood cast 

Great shadows ; who have caught their martial rage 

From deeds of Wallace and of Bruce, and learn'd 

To temper and enrage it with the sense 

Of suffering beauty, which from Mary's fate 

Gleams through dim years ; and who conspire to crush 

These memories in men's souls, and call the void 

They make there, freedom — is a deed to weep for ! 

HENRY. 

I may not hear the comrades whom I love 
Thus slander 'd. 

HALBERT. 

You shall hear me while I speak 
Of that which nearly touches you, as one 
Of a small — branded — poor — illustrious race ; 
Who boast no fertile pastures ; no broad lake 
Studded with island woods, which make the soul 
Effeminate with richness, like the scenes 



264 GLENCOE ; OK, [act 11. 

In which the baffled Campbells hid their shame, 

And scorn 'd their distant foes. Our boasts are few, 

Yet great : — a stream which thunders from its throne, 

As when its roar was mingled with the voice 

Of eldest song, from age to age retain'd 

In human hearts ; — wild myrtles which preserve 

Their hoard of perfume for the dying hour 

When rudeness crushes them ; — rocks which no flowers 

Of earth adorn, but, in themselves austere, 

Receive the beautiful direct from Heaven, 

Which forces them to wear it, — shows their tops 

Refined with air ; compels their darkest steeps 

Reluctant to reflect the noontide sun 

In sheeted splendour — wreathes around them clouds 

In glorious retinue, which, while they float 

Slowly, or rest beneath the sable heights, 

In their brief fleecy loveliness grow proud 

To wait on the enduring. — And the right 

To walk this glen with head erect, you sold 

For bounties which Argyle could offer ! 

HENRY. 

No— 
Not for base lucre ! — for a soldier's life, 
Whose virtue's faithful valour, unperplex'd 
With aught beyond the watchword. If your cause 
Were vital, I would freely draw my sword 
To serve it ; but where lives it ? 

HALBERT. 

In the soul 
Which, ruffled by no hope to see it tower 
Again in this world, cherishes it still 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 265 

In its own deathless and unsullied home ; — 

That soul which, swelling from the mould of one 

Obscure as I, can grasp the massive forms 

Of this great vale, and bend them to its use, 

Until their stateliest attributes invest 

With pillar'd majesty the freeborn thoughts 

Which shall survive them. Even these rocks confess 

Change and decay ; show where the ancient storm 

Rent their grey sides, and, from their iron hearts, 

Unriveted huge masses for its sport, 

And left their splinters to attest a power 

Greater than they ; — but mighty truths like those 

On which our slighted cause was based, shall hold 

Their seat in the clear spirit which disdains 

To sully or resign them, undisturb'd 

By change or death : — they are eternal, Henry ! 

HENRY. 

If we were now the lords of this domain 
You love so well, I might have found a tie 
To bind me to your wishes ; you resign'd it ; 
What can these mountains yield to one who owns 
Mac Ian as their lord ? 

HALBERT. 

The power to bear 
That bitter taunt — which yet I feel ! — Henry ! 
Was that well said ? 

HENRY. 

You should not have provoked it 
By slanders on my officers and friends. 

HALBERT. 

Your friends ! Poor youth ! companionship in mirth, 



266 GLENCOE ; OR, [act ii. 

Ungraced by thought, makes shallow friends ; and yours 
Are worse than shallow — they are false. 

HENRY. 

Nay, this 
I will not bear ; draw, sir ! 

[Henry draws his sword, and rushes on Halbert, who 
dashes it from his hand. 

HALBERT. 

Take up your sword ; 
See how a bad cause makes a brave arm weak ! 
Blush not ; you drew in pastime. 

HENRY. 

Kill me now, 
And walk the hills in pride ! 

HALBERT. 

I see too clearly 
Our paths diverge ; — but let us not forget 
That we have trod life's early way together, 
Hand clasp'd in hand. How proud was I to watch 
Your youngest darings, when I saw you dive 
To the deep bottom of the lake beneath us, 
Nor draw one breath till in delight you rose 
To laugh above it ; when I traced the crags 
By which with lightest footstep you approach'd 
The eaglets' bed ; and when you slipp'd, yet knew 
No paleness, bore you in my trembling arms 
To yon black ridge, from which in the cold thaw 
The snow-wreath melts, as infancy's pure thoughts 
Have vanish'd from your soul. 

HENRY. 

No — Halbert — no ! 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2 

Graceless I shook them from it, but they crowd 
Here at your voice. 

HALBEET. 

So, you will not forget us ? 
Go, then, where fortune calls you, loved and praised — 
Let not the ribald licence of a camp 
Insult the griefs of Scotland ; 'mid the brave 
Be bravest ; and when honours wait your grasp, 
Allow a moment's absence to your heart 
While it recals one lonely tower, whose doors 
Would open to you were you beggar 'd, shamed, 
Forsaken ; — and beside whose once-loved hearth 
Your praises shall awaken joy more fervent 
Than nobler friends can guess at. Ah ! you weep — 
My own true brother still ! 

HENRY. 

I am ! I am ! [They embrace. 

Enter Helen. 

HELEN. 

Forgive me that I folio w'd you. I saw 
Both ruffled at your parting ; but my fears 
Never suggested an event so sad, 
As that two brothers, from whose swords alone 
We hope protection, should direct their points 
Against each other's lives. 

HENRY. 

You must not leave 
This spot with the belief that Halbert shares 
The blame of this encounter ; mine the fault, 
Be mine the shame. 



268 GLENCOE ; OK, [act ii. 

HALBERT. 

I will not let you pour 
On Helen's ear one word of self-reproach ; 
You'll not believe him shamed ? 

HELEN. 

Indeed I will not ; 
I feel that shame and Henry are disjoin'd 
As yonder summits. [To heney. 

I must teach your steps 
The pleasant pathways which we used to tread 

In old SWeet times. [Takes his hand. 

halbert (apart). 

It cannot be she means 
Other than sisterly regard in this ; 
Tis but the frankness of a courteous heart. 
No more — no more. 

helen (to Halbert). 
Will you not walk with us ? 
I have a hand for you too. 

HALBERT. 

Nothing else ? 

HELEN. 

Yes ; and a heart — a grateful one. So solemn i 

Nay, you must smile ; this is a day of joy, 

And shall be cloudless. Hark ! the music calls us. 

[Martial music at a distance. 



Those strains again ! Forgive me. Let us home. 

[Exeunt. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 



ACT III.* 

Scene I. — The Quarters of Olenlyon. 
Enter Glenlyon and Lindsay. 

GLENLYON. 

Are you not weary of your quarters. Lindsay ? 

LINDSAY. 

Not I ; — I care but little where I lodge. 

GLENLYON. 

These fifteen days among the snows will nerve 

Our soldiers to encounter a campaign 

In coldest winter. Do they bear it bravely ? 

LINDSAY. 

Bear it ? The rogues exult in it ! Rude plenty 
And loosen'd discipline make rich amends 
For rations duly meted, and warm shelter, 
The garrison affords. Our savage hosts 
Have open'd their rock-cellar'd stores of ale, 
And of the luscious juice from honey press'd, 
Which the wild bee from scanty heather wins 
To make us jocund ; laughter and the dance 
Have shaken many a hovel. May I ask 
If we are destined long to dally thus '? 

GLENLYON. 

I know not, Lindsay ; what our mission was 

* A fortnight is supposed to elapse between the Second and Third Acts. 



270 GLENCOE; OR, [act hi. 

You heard : — I scarcely dare remember it ; 
I, who have ever held my conduct true 
To orders, as my pistol to my touch, 
And feel these fastnesses are unsubdued 
While a fierce clan like this retains its show 
Of uuity and ancient right, recoil 
From that which we may execute. But thus 
We must not loiter ; each repast, each cup, 
Each pressure of the hand, will make our work 
Harder and darker. I will send at once 
To Duncanson ; perchance Mac Ian's oath 
Accepted by the sheriff, though so late, 
May save him. There's a mournful courtesy 
In this old chief, crest- fall'n but self-sustain'd, 
Which urges me to wish it. 

LINDSAY. 

He is crafty, 
But yet most daring : never will the Highlands 
Know peace while he infests them. 

glenlton (writing). 

Wound not him 
With the sharp tongue on whom your sword may deal ; 
I will despatch Macdonald : can you tell 
Where I may find him? 

LINDSAY. 

No : but I am sure 
He's pleasantly engaged ; for I have met him 
Often, since we have lodged here, with a lady 
Gracing his arm, whom a slight glance approves 
Of rarest beauty. But he comes to make 
His own report. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 

GLENLYON. 

'Tis well, sir, you have come ; 
You have hut seldom sought my orders here ; 
And but that I am told you have fair plea 
For such remissness, I might gravely note it. 
At present I require to know the name 
And station of the damsel who has drawn 
So true an officer from duty. 

HENRY. 

Sir, 
My home was in this glen, and I live here 
Beueath my brother's roof. 

GLENLYON. 

Nay, no evasion ; 
Tell me at once to whom I owe your absence, 
Or hope no favour. 

HENRY. 

If I had not fear'd 
The old estrangement which the father caused 
Might touch the daughter, I had long ere this 
Sought for her your protection. She is the child 
Of your slain brother, from your love so long 
Unhappily divided. 

GLENLYON. 

I knew not 
That he had left a daughter. 

HENRY. 

When he died, 



272 GLENCOE; OR, [act m. 

You were abroad ; and she, an infant, found 
A sire in mine. 

GLENLYON. 

Poor girl ! — To find her here 
At such a moment ! — but she shall be cared for. 

HENRY. 

Cared for ! 

GLENLYON. 

Yes — cared for ; — is my language strange ? 
Is't strange that I should care for her? To business : — 
You are swift of foot, and know the jagged paths 

Among these hills. [Gives a letter. 

Bear this to Duncanson, 
And bring his answer with your best despatch : 
When you return, we'll talk of my fair niece, 
The partner of your rambles. I'll find means 
To honour and reward you. Lindsay, come. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — A Room in Halberts Tower. 
Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Helen, how grave you are ! While winter stretch'd 
Its dull eventless length, your ready mirth 
Lit the dark hours with gaiety, which else 
Had been unvaried gloom. Now that our snows 
Glitter with dancing feathers and bright plaids, 
Our echoes leam to laugh, and our rough paths 
Are cheer'd by tales of love, you droop and sigh ! 
Does any secret grief afflict my child ? 



scene II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 273 

HELEN. 

Grief, madam! Tis the pensiveness of joy, 
Too deep for language, too serene for mirth, 
Makes me seem sad. To meet in manhood's bloom 
The gallant playmate of my childhood ; propp'd 
On the same arm to tread the same wild paths ; 
And in sweet fellowship of memories, feel 
Hour after hour of long-forgotten pleasure 
Start forth in sunny vividness and break 
The mist of heavy years, — is joy so hearted, 
That it can find no colour in the range 
Of gladness to express it ; — so accepts 
A solemn hue from grief. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Have you then felt 
Those years so heavy, you have help'd to make 
So light to me ? Your lodging has been bleak, 
Your entertainment scanty ; yet your youth 
Has been so furnish'd with rich thoughts ; so raised 
To lofty contemplations ; that my pride 
In the bright valour of my younger son 
Cannot prevent my wonder that the hours 
In which my Halbert with delighted care 
Has minister'd to your soul's noblest thirsts, 
Should be thus soon forgotten. 

HELEN. 

Not forgotten, 
Nor have the years been heavy : if I said so 
I was most thankless. Pardon me, sweet lady, 
But when with Henry, I recal old times, 
I look across the intervening years 



274 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

As a low vale in which fair pastures lie 

Unseen, to gaze upon a sunlit bank 

On which my childhood sported, and which grows 

Near as I watch it. If his nature seems 

Unsoften'd by reflexion, — like a rock 

Which draws no nurture from the rains, nor drinks 

The sunbeam in that lights it, yet sustains 

A plume of heather, — it is crown'd with grace 

Which wins the heart it shelters. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My dear Halbert, 
How will you bear this ! 

HELEN. 

Can it be, you fear 
My joy in Henry's presence should afflict 
A soul so great as Halbert's ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I do fear it ; — 
I know it ; shudder at it : can you doubt 
That Halbert loves you ? 

HELEN. 

Do not think it, madam, 
For mercy's sake, if you intend by love 
Something beyond a brother's fondest care 
For a lone sister ! You are silent ; turn 
Your face away ; your bosom throbs as grief 
Or terror shook it. Am I grown a curse 
To you — to him ? whither shall I fly ? 
Where seek for counsel ? Dearest lady, save me ! 

["Helen throws herself on Lady Macdonald's neck. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 275 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Eest there, beloved fair one ; I will try 
To temper this to Halbert ; — yet I fear — 
He's bending towards us. 

HELEN. 

Hide me from his sight. 
I cannot bear it now. 

lady macdonald (leading Helen to the side). 
That way ; I'll break 
This sorrow to him, if I can ; — be calm. [Exit Helen. 

Enter Halbert, from the opposite side. 
halbert. 
Was not that Helen ? Wherefore should she fly 
Upon my coming ? But her absence serves 
My purpose now. I came to talk of her. 

lady macdonald. 
Of her ? Sit down ; you look fatigued and ill : 
I'll fetch a draught of wine. 

HALBERT. 

Fatigued and ill ! 
My looks belie me, then ; I've scarcely felt 
So fresh in spirit since I was a boy, 
And the sweet theme I come to speak of needs 
No wine to make it joyous. It is marriage. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My son ! 

HALBERT. 

Why, you look pale ; I thought my wish 
Was also yours. I know a common mother, 

t 2 



276 GLENCOE ; OE, [act in. 

Who, having lost her husband in her prime, 
Seeks from a grateful son some slight return 
For love that watch 'd his infancy, may feel 
Her fortune cruel, when a new regard, 
With all the greediness of passion, fills 
The bosom where till then affection reign'd, 
Which answer'd, though it could not rival, hers : 
But we have lived so long as equal friends 
With love absorbing duty, that I thought, 
And I still think, increase of joy to me 
Must bring delight to you. I could have lived 
Content, as we have lived, and still prolong 
The lingering ecstasy of fearless hope, 
But that the licence of the time, which brings 
A band of loose companions to our glen, 
Kequires that I should claim a husband's right 
To shield its lovely orphan. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You mean — Helen ? 

HALBERT. 

Whom else could I intend ? If you have been 
Perplex'd by fear that I might mean to seek 
Another's hand, no wonder you grew pale. 
But still you tremble ; — what is this ? 



LADY MACDONALD. 



My son ; 



Are you assured she loves you ? 

HALBERT. 

As assured 
As of my love for her. In both, one wish, 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 27' 

As she has glided into womanhood, 
Has grown with equal progress. 

LADY MAC DONALD. 

Have you sought 
Of her, if she esteems it thus ? 

HALBERT. 

By words ? 
No ; for I never doubted it : as soon 
Should I have asked you if a mother's love 
Watch'd o'er my nature's frailties. If bright hopes 
Dawning at once on each ; if gentle strifes 
To be the yielder of each little joy 
Which chance provided ; if her looks upraised 
In tearful thankfulness for each small boon, 
Which, trivial to the giver, seem'd excess 
To her ; if poverty endured for years 
Together in this valley, — do not breathe 
Of mutual love, I have no stronger proofs 
To warrant my assurance. Mother, speak ! 
Do you know anything which shows all this 
A baseless dream ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My Halbert, you have quell'd 
Fierce passion by strong virtue ; — use your strength — 
Nay, do not start thus ; I do not affirm 
With certainty you are deceived, but tremble 
Lest the expressions of a thankful heart 
And gracious disposition should assume 
A colour they possess not, to an eye 
Bent fondly over them. 



278 GLENCOE; OK f [act in. 

HALBERT. 

It cannot be ; 
A thousand, and a thousand times, I've read 
Her inmost soul ; and you that rack me thus 
With doubt have read it with me. Before Heaven, 
I summon you to witness ! In the gloom 
Of winter's dismal evening, while I strove 
To melt the icy burthen of the hours 
By knightly stories, and rehearsed the fate 
Of some high maiden's passion, self-sustain'd 
Through years of solitary hope, or crown 'd 
In death with triumph, have you not observed, 
As fading embers threw a sudden gleam 
Upon her beauty, that its gaze was fix'd 
On the rapt speaker, with a force that told 
How she could lavish such a love on him ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I have ; and then I fancied that she loved you. 

HALBERT. 

Fancied ! Good mother, is that emptiest sound 

The comfort that you offer ? Is my heart 

Fit sport for fancy ? Fancied ! — 'twas as clear 

As it were written in the book of truth 

By a celestial penman ! Answer me, 

Once more ! When hurricanes have rock'd these walls, 

And dash'd upon our wondering ears the roar 

Of the far sea, exulting that its wastes 

Were populous with death-pangs ; — as my arms 

Enfolding each, grew tighter with the sense 

Of feebleness to save ; — have you not known 

Her looks, beyond the power of language, speak 



scene II.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

In resolute content, how sweet it were 
To die so link'd together ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I have mark'd it. 

HALBERT. 

Then wherefore do you torture me with doubt ? 
What can you know, what guess, that you can weigh 
Against these proofs ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Be firm ; she loves another. 



'Tis false ! — and yet, great Heaven ! your quivering lips 
Attest it. And you knew this ? You partook 
Her counsels — His ! — Yes, his ! — you know the name 
Which I must curse — of him I must pursue 
Through deserts and through cities till I search 
His bosom with my sword. Tell me the name — 
Now — now — delay not. 

lady macdonald (laying her hand on his arm). 
Halbert, pause, and look 
Into your mother's face, and then reply 
To her : — does she deserve this of her son ? 



I am a thankless wretch to use command 

Where I should humbly sue. — Sit, sit, dear mother, 

Assume your old authority. 

[ Wildly places her in a chair and falls on his knees beside it. 

I kneel 
There — meekly as you taught me — when you raised 



280 GLENCOE; OR, [act m. 

For the first time my little hands to God ; 
A child, obedient and infirm as then, 
I do implore you, tell your wretched son 
What he must suffer. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Are you arm'd to bear it ? 



For all things. 



HALBERT. 



LADY MACDONALD. 

Henry — 



Halbert {starting up). 

My own brother ! Now 
I see it clear ;— remember how she gazed 
With fondness on him, when he came array 'd 
In a slave's livery ; how she seized his hand 
When I had dash'd the insulting weapon from it, 
Aim'd at my life. Would I had slain him there ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

What fearful vision crosses you ? Slay Henry — 
Him whom you moulded ! From too thoughtless youth 
Strike him to all that death reveals, aud bid 
Your twice-stabb'd mother gaze upon her sons — 
The murder'd and the guilty ! 

HALBERT. 

Guilty ?— yes ! 
I am — I thought it — felt as if my arm 
Could act it ; — utter 'd it. Look not upon me ! 
Earth hide me ! — cover me ! 

[Sinks into a seat and covers Ms face with his hands. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 281 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I fear'd this outbreak 
Of fire subdued, not quench'd. My noble son, 
As you have fought with fiendish thoughts, and quell'd 

them, 
Be victor now ! 

halbert (rising). 

Are you assured she loves him ? 
It may be but a girlish dream, — her eye 
Enchanted for a moment by the grace 
Of youth — her fancy dazzled by the show 
Of military prowess, — while her soul 
In its serene and inmost temple waits 
Untouch 'd and true. 'Tis so. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Would that it were ! 

HALBERT. 

I will awake her spirit from its trance ; 
I'll meet her face to face, and soul to soul, 
And so be satisfied. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You shall do so, 
If you will rule your passion. 

HALBERT. 

I am calm ; 
Docile as infancy ; I'll seek her now. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

No ; — I will bring her on the instant. Think 
That she has not a refuge in the world 
Except in our protecting care, and feel 



282 GLENCOE; OR, [act hi. 

How gently she should be entreated ! Rage 
From you would kill her. 

HALBERT. 

Rage — to her ? All weak 
In passion as I am, you need not fear it. 

LADY MACDONALD. 
Ill trust yOU. [Exit Lady Macdonald. 

halbert (alone). 
She will come with her sweet voice 
To charm away this mist. Alas ! I'm rude 
And sad ; Henry is gay and quick of spirit, 
And light of heart. Why did I let them roam 
So often ? Yet it cannot be ; her heart 
Could not be caught by gauds ; — so pure ; so arm'd — 
So true ! 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 
henry. 
What, musing ! Let me not disturb 
Deep meditations. Is my mother near, 
Or Helen ? 



HALBERT. 



Helen ! 



HENRY. 

I have scarce a word 
To spend with either ; though I would not pass 
Your tower unvisited ; I'm bound to speed, 
For I am bearer of an urgent letter 
To Duncanson. 

HALBERT. 

To Duncanson ? The foe 
Most bitter to our clan ; — and you dare bring it 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 5 

Here ; — to your father's hall — where you were train'd 
To clansman's duty ; — which you left in scorn 
And now revisit in a lackey's guise 
To boast a cursed mission ; yield it to me, 
Traitor and slave ! or I will tear it from you. 

HENRY. 

Stand off! — what frenzy rules you ? Let me pass. 

HALBERT. 

There's treachery in it — and in you. 

Enter Lady Macdonald and Helen. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Your word ! 

[Halbert, at sight of Helen, pauses and shrinks bade. 
HALBERT (to HENRY). 

Forgive me ; I am ill at ease, and hardly 
Know what I utter. 

HENRY. 

I shall think of this 
But as brain-sickness which long study brings, 
Heaven keep me from it ! I must not remain 
A moment more : — farewell ; — I shall return 
This way to-morrow, and shall hope to find 
Our grave philosopher in happier mood. [Exit henry. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I leave you ; recollect your word. 

HALBERT. 

I Will. 

[Exit Lady Macdonald. 

Be not alarm 'd, sweet Helen ; if your looks, 
Turn'd gently on me, had not power to still 



284 GLENCOE; OR, [act 

The tempest my frail nature has endured, 
The issue of this moment would command 
All passion to deep silence, while I ask — 
If my scathed life enrich'd by yours may spread 
Its branches in the sunshine, or must shrink 
In withering solitude, a sapless thing, 
Till welcome death shall break it ? 

HELEN. 

Do not think 
Your noble nature can require a reed 
So weak as mine to prop it : virtue's power, 
"V^hich shields it as a breastplate, will not yield 
To transient sorrow which a thankless girl 
Can hurl against it. 

HALBERT. 

Little do you guess 
The heart you praise : 'tis true, among the rocks 
I sought for constancy, and day by day 
It grew ; but then within its hardening frame 
One exquisite affection took its root, 
And strengthened in its marble ; — if you tear 
That living plant, with thousand fibres, thence, 
You break up all ; — my struggles are in vain, 
And my life's shatter'd. 

HELEN. 

What a lot is mine ! 
I, who would rather perish than requite 
Long years of kindness with one throb of pain, 
Must make that soul a wreck ! 

HALBERT. 

No, Helen, no — 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 285 

This is a dream ; your heart is mine ; mine only, — 
I'll read it here : — you have not pledged its faith 
To any other ? 

HELEN. 

No ; not yet. 

HALBERT. 

Thank God !— 
Then you are mine ; we have been betrothed for years. 

HELEN. 



Would it had been so ! 



HALBERT. 

You desire it ? 



HELEN. 

Yes; 

I then had kept such watch upon my soul, 
As had not let a shadow from a dream 
Fall on your image there ; but not a word 
Of courtship pass'd between us. 

HALBERT. 

Not a word. 
Words are for lighter loves, that spread their films 
Of glossy threads, which while the air's serene 
Float gracefully, and sparkle in the sun 
Of fortune, or reflect the fainter beams 
Which moonlight fancy sheds ; but ours — yes, oues !- 
Was woven with the toughest yarn of life, 
For it was blended with the noblest things 
We lived for ; with the majesties of old ; 
The sable train of mighty griefs o'erarched 
By time's deep shadows ; with the fate of kings, — 



286 GLENCOE ; OR, [act hi. 

A glorious dynasty by faction crush'd 

With the great sentiments which made them strong 

In the affections of mankind ; — with grief 

For rock-encircled Scotland ; with poor fortune 

Shared cheerfully ; with high resolves ; with thoughts 

Of death ; and with the hopes that cannot die. 

HELEN. 

Hold ! If you rend oblivion's slender veil 
Thus fearfully, and spectres of the past 
Glide o'er my startled spirit, it will fail 
In reason. 

HALBERT. 

No ; — it shall cast off this cloud, 
And retain no impression save of things 
Which last for ever; — for to such our love 
Has been allied. How often have we stood, 
Clasp'd on yon terrace by columnar rocks, 
Upon whose jagged orifice the sky 
With its few stars seem'd pillar 'd, and have felt 
Our earthly fortunes, bounded like the gorge 
That held us, had an avenue beyond, 
Like that we gazed on ; and when summer eve 
Has tempted us to wander on the bank 
Of glory-tinged Loch-Leven, till the sea 
Open'd beyond the mountains, and the thoughts 
Of limitless expanse were render'd sweet 
By crowding memories of delicious hours 
Sooth'd by its murmur, we have own'd and bless 'd 
The presence of eternity and home ! 

HELEN. 

What shall I do ? 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 287 

HALBERT. 

Hear me while I invoke 
The spirit of one moment to attest, 
In the great eye of love-approving Heaven, 
We are each other's. When a fragile bark 
Convey 'd our little household to partake 
The blessing that yet lingers o'er the shrine 
Of desolate Iona, the faint breath 
Of evening wafted us through cluster'd piles 
Of gently-moulded columns, which the sea — 
Softening from tenderest green to foam more white 
Than snow-wreaths on a marble ridge — illumed 
As 'twould dissolve and win them ; — till a cave, 
The glorious work of angel architects 
Sent on commission to the sacred isle, 
From which, as from a fountain, God's own light 
Stream'd o'er dark Europe — in its fretted span 
Embraced us. — Pedestals of glistening black 
Kose, as if waiting for the airy tread 
Of some enraptured seraph who might pause 
To see blue ocean through the sculptured ribs 
Of the tall arch-way's curve, delight to lend 
His vastness to the lovely. We were charm'd, 
Not awe-struck ; — for the Beautiful was there 
Triumphant in its palace. As we gazed 
Rapt and enamour'd, our small vessel struck 
The cavern's side, and by a shock which seem'd 
The last that we should suffer, you were thrown 
Upon my neck — you clasp'd me then ; — and shared 
One thought of love and heaven ! 

HELEN. 

Am I indeed 



288 GLENCOE; OR, [act in. 

Faithless, yet knew it not ? My soul's perplex'd ; — 
Distracted. Whither shall it turn ? — To you ! — 
Be you its arbiter. Of you I ask, 
In your own clear simplicity of heart, 
Did you believe me yours ? 

HALBERT. 

Yes : then and ever : 
Here, with this token I assure you mine, 

[Places a ring on her finger. 

In sight of angels. Bless you ! 

HELEN. 

It is done. 
I dare not, cannot, tear this ring away. 

HALBERT. 

It but denotes what Heaven has register'd ; 

We must not pause : when will you grant this pledge 

Shall be redeem'd ? To-morrow ? 



Give me time 
To speak with — to call in my scatter 'd thoughts. 

HALBERT. 

The next day, then ? 

HELEN. 

Direct it as you please ; 
Would I were worthy ! — pray you leave me now. 

HALBERT. 

I go to share my blessedness with her 

Whose love you share with me ;— our mother, Helen. 

[Exit HALBERT. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 289 

HELEN. 

Where am I ? — can I wake from this strange dream ? 

[Observes the ring. 

No — 'tis all real — the good and brave alone 
Have power upon the spirits of the guiltless 
To raise or crush them. that I had met 
All evil things — oppression — slander — hate — 
How would I have defied them ! 

Enter Lady Macdonald. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Is it true 
You have consented to wed Halbert ? 

HELEN. 

Yes. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My child, come to my heart. How's this ? You are pale 
And cold as marble. 

HELEN. 

You may well regard 
My purpose with distrust ; — but when I take 
The noble Halbert 's hand, I'll bid adieu 
To every recollection which may touch 
My duty to him. I shall never muse 
On childhood's pleasures, innocent no more 
For me ; — shall never tread the shelter'd paths 
Which I have lately linger'd in ; nor think 
Upon a soldier's glories ; nor repeat 
One name — never ! — I am very weak, 
I did not know how weak. The Virgin aid me ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

She will, my lovely one. 



290 GLENCOE ; OR, [act iv. 

HELEN. 

I'll seek the chapel, 
If these poor limbs will bear me. — On your bosom 
I must seek strength first, mother. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Weep there, child, 
And may Heaven's arms encircle you as mine ! [Exeunt. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — The Terrace before the Tower of Halbert. — Time, — Noon 
of the Sixteenth Day. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 
henry. 
Will no one answer me ? — I call in vain ; — 
And must pass on without that glimpse of Helen 

I Came tO win. [Kenneth crosses the stage. 

Stay, fellow ; where 's my mother ? 

KENNETH. 

She is preparing for our master's wedding, 

Of which our notice has been short ; 'twas yesterday 

Appointed for to-morrow. 

HENRY. 

Halbert 's wedding ! — 
That's pleasant news, though strange ; — to think my 
brother, 



I 



scene I.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 291 

My solemn brother, all this time in love ! 
He has not trusted me : so I must ask 
Of you, the fair one's name. 

KENNETH. 

Name ! — surely, sir, 
It could be none but Helen Campbell. 

HENRY. 

Cease 
Your jesting with that name, or with my sword 
I'll try to teach you manners. 

KENNETH. 

Jesting, sir ! — 
We have little jesting here ; — although these walls 
Will ring for once, when our dear master gives them 
So kind a mistress. 

HENRY. 

Dare you mock me ? No ! — 
I will not vent my rage on you ; — if this 
Is not a jest, tell your kind mistress, — here 
Henry Macdonald waits her ! — bid her come 
And answer to him as she cares for life. 



I'll seek her, sir. 

HENRY. 
Begone. {Exit Kenneth. 

Can this be true ? 
Yes ; that poor knave would never dare invent 
A tale so monstrous ; — but it passes all 
My lightest comrades tell of woman's falsehood. 
How will they scoff at me — duped and despised 
By this meek mountain damsel — cast aside 

u 2 



292 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

For a dull dreamer of the rocks, who dared 

To school me with his wisdom ! Wise, indeed, 

The lady has become, to leave my hopes 

Of wealth and glory for these crazy walls, 

And solemn disputations. 'Tis a jest, 

I' faith a merry one ! — her uncle, too, 

My captain and my Mend ! — Most generous brother, 

111 mar your triumph yet ! 

Enter Helen. 

So ! You are here ! 

HELEN. 

Yes ; on a summons couch'd in terms more harsh 
Than needful : I had come on lightest word 
That spoke your wish to see me. 

HENRY. 

Do you talk 

To me of harshness ! Look me in the face — 
Look steadily upon me, and reply 
To one brief question. 

[Henky seizes Helen's arm ; she looks at Mm and turns avyay. 
HENRY. 

No ! — I need not ask it. 
Yet hold one moment ; is the bridegroom here ? 
I long to wish him joy. 

HELEN. 

Accuse him not : 
He's innocent of all. 

HENRY. 

0, doubtless ! Still 
'Twas churlish not to bid me to his bridal ; 
What is the happy hour ? 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

HELEN. 

Sunrise. . 



Until 



That hour, farewell. 



HELEN. 

leave me not in scorn ! 
But as you are a brave man, to the weak 
Be merciful. Although no plighted faith 
Is broken with you, I will not allow 
A base self-flattery to conceal the truth 
That I have wrong'd you — stolen delightful hours, 
And cherish'd gentle vanities, with heart 
Too joyous to revert to holy ties 
Long woven, though unrecognised, which link'd 
My destiny to Halbert's. He has shown 
That, though I knew it not, my life is his, 
And I have own'd his title to the hand 
This ring enriches. 

HENRY. 

And for dreams like this 
You have repell'd a soldier's love, which you, 
And only you, could have secured — released him 
From the sole anchor of a giddy youth, 
(So you described it,) and yourself from share 
Of his young fortunes, and the ample dowry 
With which your uncle would have graced them ! 

HELEN. 

Stain not 
The few sad moments we may spend with thought 
So little worthy. Had my lot been cast 
With yours, I should have cared for no success 



294 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

Save as it made you happier ; sought no pleasures 

But the perennial gaiety your mirth 

Could shed around me ; — deem'd no travel long 

If shared with — Hold ! — Accept my last farewell ; — 

May that undaunted courage which breathes in you 

Inspire you to attain the airiest heights 

Of glory, and upon them carve a name 

Besplendent to all soldiers, yet your frankness 

Dispel all envy from it ; may your feasts, 

Crown'd with delights, be shared by noblest friends ; 

And from your towering fortunes, may the cloud 

Which a slight woman's wayward fancy wreathed 

Around them, in soft sunshine melt at once, 

And, with her, be forgotten ! So Heaven speed you ! 

[Exit Hele.w 
HENRY. 

Yes ; it will speed me ; for she loves me still ! 

But I forget my duty ; — this despatch 

Is waited for by him who shall avenge me ! 

[Exit Henry Macdonald. 



Scene II. — TJie Quarters of Glenlyon. 
Glenlton — Lindsay. 
glenlyon. 
Surely 'tis time Macdonald had return'd : 
The readiest, boldest, and most constant officer 
I ever yet promoted ; — some mischance 
Or treachery must delay him. Treachery — faugh ! 
'Tis an ill word, but may import no more 
Than a safe means of justice, which rash force 
Might frustrate. Would our messenger were here ! 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 295 

LINDSAY. 

Indeed time presses ; we shall bear the charge 
Of weakness for the doubt which has delay 'd 
The course prescribed. 

GLENLYON. 

He was not wont to loiter. 
If the command be clear, my course is plain ; 
And yet — he comes — could I suspect he knew 
The tidings that he bears, his face would tell them. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 
How's this ? your looks are wild ; have you met aught 
Should shake a brave man's constancy ? 

HENRY. 

I crave 
Your pardon ; 'tis a private grief unnerves me ; 
The lovely lady who has shared my walks, 
And, as I proudly thought, return'd the love 
She had inspired in me, at sunrise weds 
My elder brother. What of that ? My duty 
Has been perform'd ; — and Duncanson's reply 

Is here. [Henry delivers a letter to Glenlyon. 

GLENLYON. 

Thanks ; — wait within ; — refresh yourself ; — 

I'll deal with your fair rebel. [Exit henry macdonald. 

My hand trembles 
As it has never trembled ; — I shall mar 
The seal ; — open and read the letter. — 

[Lindsay opens and reads the letter. AVell ? 

LINDSAY. 

It is as I expected, and you fear'd ; 






296 GLENCOE; OK, [act iv. 

The order is to guard the avenues 
To-night ; and before morning, put in force 
The royal ordinance on the lives of all 
Below the age of seventy. 

GLENLYON. 

Would that death 
Had met me first ! 

LINDSAY. 

Yet you will not withhold 
Obedience ? 

GLENLYON. 

Never; — I am shaken now, 
But you shall find me constant to obey 
The simple law of duty: — none shall live. 

LINDSAY. 

Think of these clansmen as of rebels snared 
In treason, whom a law, disdaining forms. 
Has sentenced : it is hard to make brave soldiers 
Anticipate the headsman with their swords ; 
Yet we must do our office. 

GLENLYON. 

Be it yours 
To show the men their duty. 

LINDSAY. 

I will do 
All you may order ; but I cannot range 
The soldiers so as to prevent escape 
Through the wild passes of these mountains ; none, 
Unless familiar with the glen, can do this. 

GLENLYON. 
Call in Macdonald. [Exit Lindsay. 



scene ii.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 297 

He shall plant the men : 
His present passion moulds him to our will. 

Re-enter Lindsay and Henry Macdonaux 
[To henry.] There is a service I would claim of you, 
Which, well achieved, shall humble to your feet 
The rival who presumes to cross your wish 
For great alliance, and reward your love 
With happiest fortune. 

henry. 

Let the service be 
So full of peril that the chance of life 
Bears but a thousandth portion of the hope 
That death is greedy with, and I embrace it. 

GLENLYON. 

It lacks the peril you desire. This clan, 
Though crouching now to William's power, retains 
Its lion fierceness. We must tame its chiefs 
By forcing them, in abject terms, to sue 
For pardon — yield their hidden stores of arms — 
And feel themselves subdued. At dawn to-morrow 
We'll awe them to submission, by array 
Of soldiers, planted in each track, whose arms 
Shall make the glen their prison. What I seek 
Is, that at midnight, you, who know the paths, 
Would so dispose the soldiers, that no clansman 
Escape the vale — save by the eastern road, 
Which Duncanson will line ; — that done, repose — 
And dream that at the sunrise you shall see 
Your daring rival suppliant, and my niece 
Your wealthy bride. Will you do this ? 



29S GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

HENRY, 

I will. 

Enter Dremmond. 

DRTTMMOND. 

I come to ask if I shall bid the band 
Attend you at the feast. 

GLENLYON. 

What feast ? 

LINDSAY. 

The banquet 
Mac Ian gives to-day : — the hour is near. 

glenlyon. 
A banquet ! that is terrible. 

lindsat (apart to Glenlyon). 
Be wary ; 
Eyes are upon us. [Aloud], You will send the band ; 
All we can do should grace our visit. 

GLENLYON (to DrUMMOND). 

Yes : 

You may retire. [Exit deummond. 

[To Hexbt] At dawn I will attend 
Your bridal ; 'twill be yours. At this night's feast 
Beware that by no word or look you hint 
The midnight's duty or the morning's hope : 

Be Calm — as I am. [Exeunt Glenlyon and Lindsay. 

henry (alone). 

How shall I subdue 
The mantling sense of victory which laughs 
And dances in my spirit ? He who dash'd 
My weapon from my grasp shall feel he stands 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 2i 

Before his master ; chidden as I was, 

And, for a moment, silenced, I shall rain 

Pardon and life on him who would have stolen 

The mistress of my soul ! She's mine ! She's mine ! 

[Exit. 



Scene III. — Terrace before Halbert's Tower. 
Enter Lady Macdonald and Halbert. 

HALBERT. 

Is she so pensive still ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Alas ! in vain 
I watch to see some gleam of pleasure light 
Her mournful eyes. Save that her fingers ply 
The needle constantly, as if they wrought 
From habit of sweet motion, you might doubt 
If in her statue-like and silent beauty 
The life of this world stirr'd. 

HALBERT. 

If Henry broke 
Upon her suddenly, his harsh demeanour 
Might drive the colour from her cheeks, and scare 
Her thoughts from their repose. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I cannot hope it ; 
She has been more serene since then. Before, 
She would pursue her work with restless hand ; 
Leave it and pace the room ; sit down and sigh, 
As if her heart were breaking ; wring her hands ; 



300 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

And then — as finding strength to chase some image 
That madden'd her away, — toss back her head, 
And smiling, urge her needle with more speed 
Than at the first ; but since she spoke with Henry 
She has been calm, though sad, as one beyond 
The reach of fear or hope ; who saw her course 
And was resign'd to follow it. 

HALBERT. 

Resign'd ! 
Is that my sum of happiness ? To hold 
As in a tyrant's grasp, a lovely form 
Subdued by its own gentleness, yet know 
That the celestial mind defies the power 
Of finest bonds, — and from the winning smile 
In which fond custom wreathes the face, escapes 
To scenes long past, or for a distant voice 
Waits listening ! I have held the gaoler's lot, 
Far heavier than his captive's ; yet how light 
His chains to those I must inflict and bear ! 

LADY MACDONALD. 

You wrong my lovely daughter ; — when she weds, 

Each wish, each hope, each fancy which might dim 

The brightness of her constancy, will fly 

For ever. Her affections have been toss'd, 

But not perverted ; as the water keeps 

Its crystal beauty in its bed of rock, 

Though vex'd by winds which from a cloudless sky 

Sweep o'er our mountain tarns, her soul perplex'd 

By contrary emotions, caught no taint, 

Sunk or uplifted, but will settle, calm 

As if no breath had wreath'd it. She will prove 



scene in.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 301 

With all her soul a true wife to you, Halbert, 
Though not a blithe one. 

HALBERT. 

Do you not believe 
She will be happy soon ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

She will be tranquil ; 
But if you ask me if she will enjoy 
The happiness for which her nature's framed, 
I cannot veil my fears. 

HALBERT. 

What should I do ? 
I have known fearful heart-struggles ; but this 
Makes all seem gentle. 



A noble purpose. 



LADY MACDONALD. 

There is in your soul 



Must I give up all. 
And yet live on ? No earthly hope remains 
For me if this be blasted. With the fall 
Of the great objects which my youth revered, 
I lost all power to mingle in the strifes 
Of this new-modell'd world. I cannot taste 
The sweet resources Heaven, in grace, provides 
For love-lorn manhood ; thirst of fame in me 
Is quench'd ; society's miscall'd delights 
Would fret me into ecstacy ; and war, 
The glorious refuge of despair, would seem 
A slaughterous and a mercenary trade 






302 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

To one who has no country. If I act 

The thought which fills your bosom, I must live 

Loveless and hopeless. Can you ask it, mother ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I cannot ask it. But I thought I saw 
High resolution gathering, while I spoke 
Of Helen's present state, and what I fear 
'Twill be when — 

halbert {stopping her). 
Speak no more. It shall not be ; 
I will make ready for the sacrifice. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

My noble son ! Let me embrace you, proud 

As never Roman mother in the arms 

Of her crown'd hero. Shall I speak to Helen ? 

HALBERT. 

No — not for worlds — I cannot utter yet 
The irrevocable word. It may be still 
That you misjudge her; — or that she mistakes 
Her heart's true feeling. I will wait the morn. 

Enter Alaster Macdonald. 

ALASTER. 

My father sends me with a gracious message 
Which I rejoice to bear, though it confess 
A fault in him ; he offers you his hand, 
With frank confession he has done you wrong, 
And claims your presence at the feast he gives 
To-day to Argyle's officers. 

HALBERT. 

Dear cousin, 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 303 

I am most happy in Mac Ian's love, 
And will with earnest duty answer it ; 
But I entreat him to excuse me now, 
For I am busy with sick thoughts ; unfit 
For high festivity. 

ALASTER. 

I know you hate, 
As I do, this submission ; but 'tis made ; 
No courtesies can make it deeper. Hark ! 

[Distant music heard. 

The guests assemble now. 

HALBERT. 

That music breathes 
As when I heard it first ; — in lively strain 
It vibrates on the ear, but on my soul 
Falls like a dirge. Some awful doom awaits 
Our race, and thus through sounds of this world speaks 
To the mind's ear. I will avert or share it. 
Yes ; — I attend you. Mother, you will watch 
Your precious charge as if on every glance 
A life depended ? I am sure you will. 

[Exit Lady Macdonald. 

Now, Alaster, I am ready for your feast. 

[Exeunt Halbebt and Alaster. 

Scene IV.— A Hall in Mac Jail's House. — A Banquet. — Mac 
Ian, Angus, Donald, John Macdonald, Glenlyon, 
Lindsay, Henry Macdonald, Officers of Ar gyle's Regi- 
ment, and Clansmen, seated. 

mac ian (rising). 
Once more I thank you for the grace you pay 
To a fallen chief, whose name and title live 
As shadows of the past ; but who can taste 



304 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

A comfort in his downfall, while brave men 
Show, by their courteous action, they preserve 
Respect for what he has been. Let us drink 
A health to those you serve ; — the Majesties 
Of England ; whom to death I had withstood, 
Had hope for James's cause remain'd ; but whom, 
That hope extinguish'd, I will frankly serve. 
Rise, clansmen ! Drink to William and his Queen, 
To whom we owe our duty. 

GLENLYON. 

We esteem 
The pledge at its just value. 

MAC IAN. 

I perceive 
Your thoughts still wrong me. Stoutly have I fought 
Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
His cause expired. I felt it when he fell, 
Lifting his arm to wave these clansmen on, 
To make his triumph sure. The menial slave, 
The household traitor, who, with felon hand, 
Stole then his noble life, destroy'd, in him, 
A line of monarchs. While the tangled woods 
Of Killikrankie rang with shrill delight 
Of our victorious Highlanders, I knew 
That we were conquer'd ; and I sheathed my sword 
For ever. 

angus (apart to Donald). 
Do you mark him ! 

DONALD. 

Yes ; his life 
Casts out its dying flash. He's doom'd. 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

GLENLYON. 

You wrong 
Your gallant comrades ; surely loss of one 
Might be supplied. 

MAC IAN. 

Not of a man like him. 
Tis not in multitudes of common minds 
That by contagious impulses are sway'd, 
Like rushes in the wind, a mighty cause 
Can live ; but in the master mind of one 
Who sways them. Sooner would these glorious hills 
If crush'd to powder, with their atoms guard 
Our glens, than million clansmen fill the place 
Of such a chief. Would I had died with him ! 
No more of this ; fill me some wine. [Drinks. 

Enter Alaster and Halbeet. 

Your leave 

One moment. [Mac Ian comes to Halbeet, and takes his hand. 

MAC IAN. 

Halbert, I lack words to thank 
This kindness as I ought. 

halbert. 

It is deep joy 
For me to know I am at peace with all, 
And, most of all, with you. 

MAC IAN. 

'Tis very strange : 
I am amazed how I could doubt your faith ; 
A film is passing from my soul, that leaves 
All clear within its vision. Take your place. 

[Halbert and Alaster sit on the opposite side of the hall to 
Glenlyon and Lindsay. 



306 GLENCOE; OK, [act iv. 

mac ian {resuming Ms seat). 
Your pardon. Let us drain another cup 
To our chief guest, Glenlyon ; frank in war, 
And generous in alliance. 

HALBERT (to ALASTER). 

Watch him now ; 
He changes ; see — his very lips are pale ; — 
I will unmask him. 

ALASTER. 

Pray forbear. 

GLENLYON. 

Accept 
A soldier's thanks. 

HALBERT (to ALASTER). 

His voice is choked — look now — 
Do you not see him shiver ? 

ALASTER. 

It is but fancy ; 
How can he hope to see us more abased 
Than he has made us ? 

mac ian (to Glenlyon). 

You must pledge me now ; — 
Wine to Glenlyon. 

[Glenxton- rises — takes the, cup— puts it to his ftps — and 
hastily returns it. 

HALBERT. 

He does not taste the wine, 
He dares not taste it. Hold me not. 

[Breaking from Alaster. 

Glenlyon ! 
Why did you put aside the un tasted cup ? 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 307 

Why did you change and glare ? Why is your heart — 
Your hollow heart — shivering and shrinking now ? 
Look on him, friends ! Mac Ian ! — Angus ! — Donald i 
John ! — Alaster ! Does some infernal charm 
Delude you, that you rise not ? 

[To glenlyon.] Answer me ! 
What fiendish thought was yours when you withdrew 
That goblet from your lips ? 

LINDSAY, 

Who's this that dares 
Insult Glenlyon ? 

HALBERT. 

Parasite, I speak not 
To such as you ! Behold him now ! He's silent. 

LINDSAY. 

In scorn. 

[To Glenlyon.] You will not deign to make reply 

To this coarse brawler ? Let us go. 

glenlyon (addressing Mac Ian). 

Farewell ! 
You cannot curb the rudeness of your followers, 

Nor I endure it. [Glenlyon and Lindsay retiring/. 



Let them not depart ; 
Not for myself I speak, — for I shall find 
No time so fit to die ; but for your wives — 
Your sires — your babes — your all. Glenlyon ! turn, 
If you have so much nature as to look 
The thing you dare. 

x2 



308 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

glenlyon {turning). 

Be brief in your demand. 
What is your pleasure ? 

HALBERT. 

That you spend three minutes 
With me in the cold moonlight ; — arm'd ; — alone. 

GLENLYON. 

With you — a conquer'd rebel ? 

mac ian (holding Halbert). 

He's a guest 
Beneath this roof's protection. 

halbert. 

Let him claim 
Its shelter if he dares, and I will kneel 
And he shall trample on me. 

LINDSAY (to GlENLTON). 

Come away ! 

ALASTER. 

Dear Halbert, do not risk a life so dear 
As yours is to my father. 

HALBERT. 

Ptisk my life — 
Dost see him ? There is that within his breast 
Would paralyse his arm, and make his knees 
Tremble, and bid the stubborn soldier fall 
Half slain without the steel ; — 

[To Glenltox.] I charge on you 
Black treason — what I know not yet — I feel it ; 
Will you confess, or meet me ? 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

LINDSAY. 

Do not answer. 

GLENLYON. 

I meet you ! — Talk to me of treason ! — me 

Who bear the lawful orders of a king 

To whom you are a traitor ; — whom your race, 

With all the hatred of their savage thoughts, 

Abjure; — but he shall curb them — they shall feel 

His power in me. Your worthless life, rash fool, 

To-night I spare ; — but if again we meet, 

It shall be as you wish, for death. [Exeunt Glenlyon, &c. 

HALBERT. 

It shall. 

MAC IAN (tO HALBERT). 

I thank your generous courage, but I look 
With wonder on your passion. 

HALBERT. 

What ! does nothing 
Whisper of peril to you ? 

MAC IAN. 

No — my heart 
Is jocund ; — stripp'd of glory, power, and name, 
We shall be soon united and at peace. 

HALBERT. 

Heaven grant it ! 

ALASTER. 

I would rather die to-morrow, 
If I might choose, than hold the sweetest home 
At England's mercy. 






310 GLENCOE; OR, [act iv. 

HALBERT. 

My brave cousin ! Blessings 
In life and death be with you. 

MAC IAN. 

Come away; 
This sadness will infect us. There's my hand 
And my heart with it. 

ALASTER. 

And mine too. 

JOHN. 

And mine. 

MAC IAN. 

Farewell ; — no strife shall separate us more. 

[Exeunt Mac Ian, Alastee, and John. 

HALBERT. 
That's Well ! — [Sees Henry. 

My brother here ? — he wakes my soul 
To its own sufferings. Yet we must not part thus. 
Brother ! 

HENRY. 

What would you with me ? 

HALBERT. 

I would know 
We part to-night as brothers should ; you think 
That you have cause to blame me : wait awhile, 
And you may judge me better. 

HENRY. 

Blame you? — No — 
Not I — except that you forgot to bid 
Your brother to your bridal. He'll make bold 
To go unbidden. 



scene iv.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 311 

HALBERT. 

Fail not ; — you may find 
A blessing there you will be grateful for. 

henry {aside). 
Can he suspect my purpose ? — Oh, too well 
You have deserved my thanks, and there will add 
A crowning favour. 

HALBERT. 

I will take your hand ; 
It trembles. 

HENRY. 

No ; — or if it shakes, — the night 
Chills it with frost. It will be firm to-morrow. 

[Exit Henky Macdonald. 
HALBERT. 

To-morrow ! — that will settle all — I'll seek 
My mother now ; — if she is still assured 
That Helen loves — I cannot bear the thought — 
Silence and darkness teach me to endure it ! 

[Exit Halbert Macdonald. 



312 GLENCOE; OK, [act v. 



ACT Y. 

Scene I. — A Chapel adjoining Halbert's Tower, partly in ruins, 
in which is seen the Tomb of Halbert' s Father. — Morning just 
breaking. 

Enter Halbert Macdonald. 



The hour approaches when my life's last hope 
Will he extinguish'd ; — it is quivering now 
Upon the verge of darkness ; — yet I feel 
No pang— no throb. My spirit is serene, 
As if prepared to cleave celestial air 
To passionless delights — this calm within me 
Has in it something awful. 

Enter Lady Macdonald. 

Wish me joy. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

Joy, Halbert?— 

HALBERT. 

Yes ; — of victory achieved 
O'er the last passion which can ever rack 
My bosom. I can bear to ask you now, 
If any change in Helen raises doubt 

How she will answer, when 1 am not yet arm'd 

As I have boasted. 

LADY MACDONALD. 

No ; — she scarcely raised 
Her head, until her work — a bridal robe — 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 313 

Hung dazzling on her arm ; as then she sought 
Her chamber, I impress'd one solemn kiss 
Upon her icy brow : then as aroused 
From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw 
Her arms around my neck ; and whispering low, 
But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch 
Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish 
Should rise to mar her duty to her lord. 

HALBERT. 

I ask no more, till in this holy place 

Her soul shall answer me ; too well I know 

The issue ; yet I shrink not, nor repine. 

LADY. MACDONALD. 

Your calmness frightens me ; you think of death. 

HALBERT. 

But as a thing to sigh for, not to seek ; 

I never will forsake you for the grave, 

Till Heaven dismiss me thither. Has she slept ? 

LADY MACDONALD. 

I know not; but her chamber has been voiceless, 
Until, on notice of the priest arrived, 
She sent to pray the guidance of his arm 
To lead her to this place. 

HALBERT. 

The priest arrived ! 
what a world of happiness these words 
Should indicate. It opens now to show 
Its glories melting into air. They come — 
Her step is heavy; may the heart that sways it 
Go lighter hence ! 



314 GLENCOE; OK, [act v. 

Enter the Priest, leading Helen, in bridal attire. 
halbeet {meeting them). 
Before a solemn change 
Shall pass on our condition, let me claim 
One kiss, in memory of the wintry paths 
Which we have walk'd with purity of heart 
And heaven-ward aspect ; — should death take us now, 

It had no terrors. [Kisses Helen's forehead. 

PRIEST. 

Sir, your words are sad 
For such an hour. Shall we begin the service ? 

HALBERT. 

We wait my brother's presence. 

HELEN. 

not his ! 
I am quite ready ; let the rite proceed. 

Enter Henry Macdonald. 

HALBERT. 

You are most welcome ; — we have waited for you. 

henry (looking eagerly round). 
Your pardon ; all are not assembled yet. 
Where is Glenlyon ? 

HALBERT. 

Who? 

HENRY. 

The lady's uncle. 
He has, no doubt, approved her choice, and means 
To grace the ceremonial. You will wait 
His coming ? 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 

HALBERT. 

He resign'd this lovely one 
To those who knew her worth ; he shall not now 
Infest the roof that shelters her. 

henry (aside). 

All lost ! 
What can detain him ? 

PRIEST. 

Shall the rite proceed ? 

HALBERT. 

I have a few momentous words to speak 
Before the rites begin ; — to you, fair Helen, 
I must address them ; but I pray my brother, 
Whom they touch nearly, to attend. 

HENRY. 

I listen. 

HALBERT. 

How, through sad years, the consecrated joy 

Which seems to wait me at this hour, has dawn'd 

And brighten'd, from its first uncertain rays 

Along the rugged pathway of a life 

Else unadorn'd, my passion-fever 'd speech 

Has shown ; — nor less divine the vision glows 

Now it stands clear before me, and invites 

To mingle heaven with earth. You cannot doubt it. 

HELEN. 

Never ; — I only wish I could deserve 
A love like yours. 

HALBERT. 

Yet ere I grasp this dream, 



316 GLEXCOE; OE, [act v, 

And make its phantoms real ; — within these walls 
By both revered ; — where side by side we knelt 
In infantine humility, and faith 
No question ruffled ; where your spirit sought 
To cast from its pure mirror, each faint cloud 
Which jocund thoughts might breathe or nicest fear 
Imagine to o'erspread it ; — at the tomb 
Of him who watches o'er his trembling son, 
At this dread crisis of his fate ; — I ask you — 
Explore your heart ; and if you find a wish 
That glances at another fortune, speak it ! 

HELEN. 

Have mercy on me ! 

HALBERT. 

You have seen me chafed 
By passion worse than aimless in a soul 
Whose destinies are fashion'd by a power 
Wise, bountiful, resistless ; — and the words 
Such frenzy dashes with its foam might seem 
To urge that one unlike myself must prove 
Unfit for your affection, Hear me now, 
When calmer reason governs me ! There stands 
One near to me in blood ; a soldier, valiant, 
And raised above all baseness ; in the bloom 
And gladness of his youth ; who loves you — not 
Perchance as I do — but who loves you well ; — 
You are a soldier's child ; — your noble heart 
May, from most natural impulse, turn to one 
Endow'd and graced as he is ; — if I read 
Your wish aright — I'll join this hand with his, — 
As freely as I would relinquish life 
To succour yours. 






scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 317 

helen (sinking on her knee before Halbert). 
Heaven bless you ! 

halbeet (raising Helen). 

Tis enough ; 
Now let me draw this ring away — 'tis done — 
You'll let me wear it for a little time — 
A very little time ? Come, Henry, — take 
This hand, with the free blessing of a man 
Whose all is given with it. 

[Takes Henry's hand to join it to Helen's. Henry stands 
abstracted. 

HALBEET. 

You are cold — 
Your thoughts are far away : — a blackness spreads 
Across your face ; speak to us ! 

HELEN. 

He is stricken 
With wonder at your goodness. Henry; Love! 
Join me to bless your brother. 

HENET. 

Will no bolt 
From Heaven fall on this head ! 

HELEN. 

His senses wander, 
Scared at this sudden happiness ; — anon 

All will be Well. [Grasps Ms arm. 

HENET. 

never ! — do not gaze 
Upon me ; — Helen, touch me not ; — fly all ! 

HALBEET. 

Wherefore ? From whom ? 



318 GLENCOE; OR, [act v 

HENRY. 

God ! I cannot tell it. 

[A confused cry heard far in the Valley below. 



What cry is that ? 



HALBERT. 
LADY MACDONALD. 

The shrieks of death arise. 



Not death ! 

Enter Angus- 
Angus. 
Fly for your lives ; our cherish'd guests 
Have fall'n upon the clansmen wrapp'd in sleep 
With murderous swords, and burning hovels light 
Their slaughterous way. 

HENRY. 

'Tis false. 

ANGUS. 

False! Hark! Behold! 

[Another cry heard more distinctly from the Valley, and the glare of 
distant fere seen. 

HENRY. 

misery ! I meant not this. 

HALBERT. 

You! 
Enter Alaster Macdonald wounded. 

ALASTER. 

Cousin — 
Halbert — I've struggled through the ranks of death 
Dying, to cry for justice. A few moments — 
And my poor life expended, you will bear 
The chieftain's sword. 



scene i.] THF FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 319 

HALBERT. 

Where is your father ? 

AL ASTER. 

Slain. 

HALBERT. 

And John ? 

ALASTER. 

Both murder'd in their sleep. I cry 
For justice on the head of him who ranged 
The assassins. Hear me ! I would kneel and pray, 
But my joints stiffen. 

HALBERT. 

Where's the traitor? 

alaster (Rooking round, sees Henry and exclaims). 

There ! 

[Falls lifeless into the arms of the Priest, who hears him out. 
HALBERT. 

My most unhappy hrother ! 

priest (returnmg). 

He has pass'd. 

HALBERT. 

And I am chief ! This is the fatal hour 
That Moina saw. 

[Angus and Attendants kneel to Halbert. 

Ancestral shades, I see 
You beckon in yon flame. Let me sit here ; 
The grave will serve. Where does the traitor stand ? 

HENRY. 

Here ! Chief of the Macdonalds, let my blood 
Atone my crime. I meant not death — I meant 
Defeat to you, whose heart I little guess'd 



320 GLENCOE ; OR, [act v. 

Till I implore death from it ! Vindicate 
The ancient power, which perishes while thus 
T pray to be its victim. Do you hear? 

[Renewed cries from the Valley. 

Release me from those cries ; give me one look 
Of love, and end me ! 

HALBERT. 

Will none plead for him ? 

HELEN. 
It was for me. [To Lady Macdonald. 

Plead for your son ! 

LADY HACDONALD. 

I plead 
For him who, plotting infamy, has brought 
Death on our race ! No ! All things round me plead 
Against him ; and that wail is fraught with shrieks 
Of mothers, who, with death's convulsions, strive 
In vain to shield their infants — such as he 
Was once — as innocent, as blithe, as fair — 
Henry ! Henry ! could I die for you ! 

[Lady Macdonald /aZ?s on Henry's neck. Another cry heard. She 
starts away. Helen sinks on her knees beside the tomb. 

HENRY. 

I'm ready. 

HALBERT. 

There ! — without. 

HENRY. 

I'll wait you there. 

HALBERT. 

Will Heaven vouchsafe no refuge ? 

[As he raises his arms in supplication, a shot strikes him ; he falls. 

That is well. 
Mercy, most full of grace ; I am absolved. 



scene i.] THE FATE OF THE MACDONALDS. 321 

Enter Glenlyon. 

GLENLYON. 

Am I too late ? My niece 

HELEN. 

Away ! away ! 
henry (rushing on Glenlton). 
Die, murderer ! 

LADY MACDONALD (stops Ms arm). 

Let him live. Glenlyon, 
I pray you may have life stretch 'd out beyond 
The common span of mortals, to endure 
The curse of Glencoe cleaving to your soul ! 

HELEN. 

Amen ! May Glencoe's curse be ever with you ! 

GLENLYON. 

It is upon me ; yet I will preserve you. 

HALBEET. 

Leave us to die. 

Enter Drummond. 

DRUMHOND. 

I seek Glenlyon here. 
The eastern pass is open ; Duncanson 
Has not arrived : that way the clansmen fly. 

GLENLYON. 

Heaven speed them ! [Exit glenlyon. 

HENRY. 

There will I oppose this breast 
To the pursuing demons, till I win 
The death I thirst for. [Exit henry. 



322 GLENCOE. [act 

HELEN. 
Henry ! [Sinks on the ground. 

HALBERT. 

There is comfort : 
Kaise me to clasp my mother. You will pray 
For Henry ; — and will own a child in her 
Whom mercy spares this moment. [To «e Priest. 

To your charge 
I leave the gathering of my scanty fortune, 
Which will provide a refuge for these sad ones 
In some small convent, where they'll weep out life. 
Will you do this ? 

PRIEST. 

I will. 



Bless you ! I mark 
The face which gazed in pity on my rage 
Beside my father's death-bed : — 'tis subdued — 
Hush'd — conquer 'd — pardon 'd — and I die in peace. 



[Dies. 



NOTES TO GLENCOE. 



Page 287. 

" We tvere charm' d, 
Not awe-struck ;—for the Beautiful was there 
Triumphant in its palace." 

In seeking to embody in this passage the author's impression of the Cave 
of Fingal, in Staffa, he is aware that it differs from that which all the 
descriptions he has read of the same scene convey. All suggest far greater 
dimensions — a cavern more vast and awful, hut less exquisite in beauty, 
than to his eye the reality justifies. " Compared to this (it has been said), 
what are the cathedrals or the palaces built by men?— mere models or 
playthings ;— imitative or diminutive as his works will always be when 
compared with those of nature." According to the author's recollection, the 
cave would be more fitly compared to a narrow aisle of a great cathedral, 
fashioned with nicest art, and embellished with the most florid sculpture, 
than represented as something immeasurably greater than the cathedral 
itself; and the actual admeasurement of the cave will rather accord with 
this impression, than with that which is more popular. The height of the 
top of the arch above the water at mean tide is sixty-six feet ; the breadth at 
the entrance forty-two feet; whence it contracts during its length of two 
hundred and twenty-seven feet, until at the extremity it is only twenty-two 
feet in width ; and the roof descends in nearly the same proportion. When 
it is further recollected that even this width is narrowed to the eye by the 
row of exquisite columns which continue on the northern side, and along 
which the adventurer may step, and that a slight bend about half way breaks 
its uniformity, perhaps he will be pardoned for thinking that there has been 
much exaggeration in attributing the grandeur which arises from space and 
gloom to this wonderful cavern. On the other hand, justice has not been 
done — indeed, never can be done by words — to the fairy loveliness of the 
scene, — the delicate colour of the water, — the grace of the columns, — the 
elegance of the arched roof, and the blue serenity of the distant sea, as seen 
from heneath it. 

t2 



NOTES TO GLENCOE. 



Page 296. 

" The order is to guard the avenues 
To-night ; and before morning, put in force 
The royal ordinance on the lives of all 
Below the age of 'seventy ." 

The following is Sir Walter Scott's narrative of the massacre : — 

Mac Ian of Glencoe (this was the patronymic title of the chief of this clan) 
was a man of a stately and venerable person and aspect. He possessed both 
courage and sagacity, and was accustomed to be listened to by the neigh- 
bouring chieftains, and to take a lead in their deliberations. Mac Ian had 
been deeply engaged both in the campaign of Killiecrankie, and in that 
which followed under General Buchan ; and when the insurgent Highland 
chiefs held a meeting with the Earl of Breadalbane, at a place called 
Auchallader, in tbe month of July 1691, for the purpose of arranging an 
armistice, Mac Ian was present with the rest, and, it is said, taxed Bread- 
albane with the design of retaining a part of the money lodged in his hands 
for the pacification of the Highlands. The Earl retorted with vehemence, 
and charged Mac Ian with a theft of cattle, committed upon some of his 
lands by a party from Glencoe. Other causes of offence took place, in which 
old feuds were called to recollection ; and Mac Ian was repeatedly heard to 
say, he dreaded mischief from no man so much as from tbe Earl of Bread- 
albane. Yet this unhappy chief was rash enough to stand out to the last 
moment, and decline to take advantage of King William's indemnity, till 
the time appointed by the proclamation was well nigh expired. 

The displeasure of the Earl of Breadalbane seems speedily to have com- 
municated itself to the Master of Stair, who, in his correspondence with 
Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, then commanding in the Highlands, expresses 
the greatest resentment against Mac Ian of Glencoe, for having, by his 
interference, marred the bargain between Breadalbane and the Highland 
chiefs. Accordingly, in a letter of 3rd December, the Secretary intimated 
that Government was determined to destroy utterly some of the clans, in 
order to terrify the other's ; and he hoped that, by standing out and refusing 
to submit under the indemnity, the Mac Donalds of Glencoe would fall into 
the net, — which meant that they would afford a pretext for their extirpation. 
This letter is dated a month before the time limited by the indemnity ; — 
so long did these bloody thoughts occupy the mind of this unprincipled 
statesman. 

Ere the time of mercy expired, however, Mac Ian's own apprehensions, or 
the advice of friends, dictated to him the necessity of submitting to the same 
conditions which others had embraced, and he went with his principal 
followers to take the oath of allegiance to King William. This was a very 
brief space before the 1st of January, when, by the terms of the proclamation, 
the opportunity of claiming the indemnity was to expire. Mac Ian was, 
therefore, much alarmed to find that Colonel Hill, the Governor of Fort 
William, to whom he tendered his oath of allegiance, had no power to receive 
it, being a military, and not a civil officer. Colonel Hill, however, sympa- 
thised with the distress, and even tears of the old chieftain, and gave him a 
letter to Sir Colin Campbell of Ardkinlas, Sheriff of Argyleshire, requesting 



NOTES TO GLENCOE. 325 

him to receive the "lost sheep," and administer the oath to him, that he 
might have the advantage of the indemnity, though so late in claiming it. 

Mac Ian hastened from Fort William to Inverary, without even turning 
aside to his own house, though he passed within a mile of it. But the roads, 
always very bad, were now rendered almost impassable by a storm of snow; 
so that, with all the speed the unfortunate chieftain could exert, the fatal 
1st of January was past before he reached Inverary. 

The Sheriff, however, seeing that Mac Ian had complied with the spirit of 
the statute, in tendering his submission within the given period, under the 
sincere, though mistaken belief, that he was applying to the person ordered 
to receive it ; and considering also that, but for the tempestuous weather, it 
would after all have been offered in presence of the proper law-officer, did 
not hesitate to administer the oath of allegiance, and sent off an express to 
the Privy Council, containing an attestation of Mac Ian's having taken the 
oaths, and a full explanation of the circumstances which had delayed his 
doing so until the lapse of the appointed period. The Sheriff also wrote to 
Colonel Hill what he had done, and requested that he would take care that 
Glencoe should not be annoyed by any military parties until the pleasure 
of the Council should be known, which he could not doubt would be 
favoui-able. 

Mac Ian, therefore, returned to his own house, and resided there, as he 
supposed, in safety, under the protection of the Government to which he had 
sworn allegiance. That he might merit this protection, he convoked his 
clan, acquainted them with his submission, and commanded them to live 
peaceably, and give no cause of offence, under pain of his displeasure. 

In the meantime, the vindictive Secretary of State had procured orders 
from his sovereign respecting the measures to be followed with such of the 
chiefs as should not have taken the oaths within the term prescribed. The 
first of these orders, dated 11th January, contained peremptory directions 
for military execution, by fire and sword, against all who should not have 
made their submission within the time appointed. It was, however, provided, 
in order to avoid driving them to desperation, that there was still to remain 
a power of granting mercy to those clans who, even after the time was past, 
should still come in and submit themselves. Such were the terms of the first 
royal warrant, in which Glencoe was not expressly named. 

It seems afterwards to have occurred to Stair, that Glencoe and his tribe 
would be sheltered under this mitigation of the intended severities, since he 
had already come in and tendered his allegiance, without waiting for the 
menace of military force. A second set of instructions were, therefore, made 
cut on the 16th January. These held out the same indulgence to other clans, 
who should submit themselves at the very last hour (a hypocritical pretext, 
for there existed none which stood in such a predicament), but they closed 
the gate of mercy against the devoted Mac Ian, who had already done 
all that was required of others. The words are remarkable:— "As for 
Mac Ian of Glencoe, and that tribe, if they can be well distinguished from 
the rest of the Highlanders, it will be proper, for the vindication of public 
justice, to extirpate that set of thieves." 

You will remark the hypocritical clemency and real cruelty of these 
instructions, which profess a readiness to extend mercy to those who needed 
it not (for all the other Highlanders had submitted within the limited time), 
and deny it to Glencoe, the only man who had not been able literally to 



326 NOTES TO GLENCOE. 

comply with the proclamation, though, in all fair construction, he had done 
what it required. 

Under what pretence or colouring King "William's authority was obtained 
for such cruel instructions, it would be in vain to inquire. The Sheriff of 
Argyle's letter had never been produced before the Council ; and the certi- 
ficate of Mac Ian's having taken the oath was blotted out, and, in the 
Scottish phrase, deleted from the books of the Privy Council. It seems 
probable, therefore, that the fact of that chief's submission was altogether 
concealed from the King, and that he was held out in the light of a desperate 
and incorrigible leader of banditti, who was the main obstacle to the peace 
of the Highlands ; but if we admit that William acted under such misrepre- 
sentations, deep blame will still attach to him for rashly issuing orders of 
an import so dreadful. It is remarkable that these fatal instructions are 
both superscribed and subscribed by the King himself, whereas, in most 
state papers, the sovereign only superscribes, and they are countersigned by 
the Secretary of State, who is answerable for their tenor ; a responsibility 
which Stair, on that occasion, was not probably ambitious of claiming. 

The secretary's letters to the military officers, directing the mode of 
executing the King's orders, betray the deep and savage interest which he 
took personally in their tenor, and his desire that the bloody measure should 
be as general as possible. He dwelt in these letters upon the proper time and 
season for cutting off the devoted tribe. " The winter," he said, "is the only 
season in which the Highlanders cannot elude us, or carry their wives, 
children, and cattle to the mountains. They cannot escape you ; for what 
human constitution can then endure to be long out of house ? This is the proper 
season to maul them, in the long dark nights." He could not suppress his 
joy that Glencoe had not come in within the term prescribed ; and expresses 
his hearty wishes that others had followed the same course. He assured the 
soldiers that their power should be ample ; and he exacted from them pro- 
portional exertions. He entreated that the thieving tribe of Glencoe might 
be rooted out in earnest ; and he was at pains to explain a phrase which is in 
itself terribly significant. He gave directions for securing every pass by 
which the victims could escape, and warned the soldiers that it were better 
to leave the thing unattempted, than fail to do it to purpose. " To plunder 
their lands, or drive off their cattle, would," say his letters, " be only to 
render them desperate ; they must be all slaughtered, and the manner of 
execution must be sure, secret, and effectual." 

These instructions, such as have been rarely penned in a Christian 
country, were sent to Colonel Hill, the Governor of Fort William, who, 
greatly surprised and grieved at their tenor, endeavoured for some time to 
evade the execution of them. At length, obliged by his situation to render 
obedience to the King's commands, he transmitted the orders to Lieutenant 
Colonel Hamilton, directing him to take four hundred men of a Highland 
regiment belonging to the Earl of Argyle, and fulfil the royal mandate. 
Thus, to make what was intended yet worse, if possible, than it was in its 
whole tenor, the perpetration of this cruelty was committed to soldiers, who 
were not only the countiymen of the proscribed, but the near neighbours, 
and some of them the close connections of the Mac Donalds of Glencoe. 
This is the more necessary to be remembered because the massacre has 
unjustly been said to have been committed by English troops. The course 
of the bloody deed was as follows : 



NOTES TO GLENCOE. 327 

Before the end of January, a party of the Earl of Argyle's regiment, 
commanded by Captain Campbell of Glenlyon, approached Glencoe. Mac 
Ian's sons went out to meet them with a body of men, to demand whether 
they came as friends or foes. The officer replied, that they came as 
friends, being sent to take up their quarters for a short time in Glencoe, in 
order to relieve the garrison of Fort "William, which was crowded with 
soldiers. On this they were welcomed with all the hospitality which the 
chief and his followers had the means of extending to them, and they 
resided for fifteen days amongst the unsuspecting Mac Donalds, in the 
exchange of every species of kindness and civility. That the laws of 
domestic affection might be violated at the same time with those of humanity 
and hospitality, you are to understand that Alaster Mac Donald, one of the 
sons of Mac Ian, was married to a niece of Glenlyon, who commanded the 
party of soldiers. It appears also that the intended cruelty was to be exercised 
upon defenceless men ; for the Mac Donalds, though afraid of no other ill-treat- 
ment from their military guests, had supposed it possible that the soldiers 
might have a commission to disarm them, and therefore had sent their weapons 
to a distance, where they might be out of reach of seizure. 

Glenlyon's party had remained in Glencoe for fourteen or fifteen days, 
when he received orders from his commanding officer, Major Duncanson, 
expressed in a manner which shows him to have been the worthy agent of the 
cruel Secretary. They were sent in conformity with orders of the same date, 
transmitted to Duncanson by Hamilton, directing that all the Mac Donalds 
under seventy years of age were to be cut off, and that the Government was 
not to be troubled with prisoners. Duncanson' s orders to Glenlyon were as 
follows : — 

" You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, and put all to the sword 
under seventy. You are to have especial care that the old fox and his cubs 
do on no account escape your hands ; you are to secure all the avenues, that 
no man escape. This you are to put in execution at four in the morning 
precisely, and by that time, or very shortly after, I will strive to be at you 
with a stronger party. But if I do not come to you at four, you are not to 
tarry for me, but fall on. This is by the King's special command, for the 
good and safety of the country, that these miscreants be cut off root and 
branch. See that this be put into execution without either fear or favour, else 
you may expect to be treated as not true to the King or Government, nor a 
man fit to carry a commission in the King's service. Expecting that you 
will not fail in the fulfilling hereof, as you love yourself, I subscribe these 
with my hand, "Robert Duncanson." 

This order was dated 12th February, and addressed, "For their 
Majesties' service, to Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon." 

This letter reached Glenlyon soon after it was written ; and he lost no 
time in carrying the dreadful mandate into execution. In the interval he 
did not abstain from any of those acts of familiarity which had lulled 
asleep the suspicions of his victims. He took his morning draught, as had 
been his practice every day since he came to the glen, at the house of 
Alaster Mac Donald, Mac Ian's second son, who was married to his 
(Glenlyon's) niece. He and two of his officers named Lindsay, accepted an 
invitation to dinner from Mac Ian himself, for the following day, on which 



328 NOTES TO GLENCOE. 

they had determined he should never see the sun risee To complete the 
siun of treachery, Glenlyon played at cards, in his own quarters, with the 
.sons of Mac Ian, John and Alaster, both of whom were also destined for 
slaughter. 

About four o'clock in the morning of 13th February, the scene of blood 
began. A party, commanded by one of the Lindsays, came to Mac Ian's 
house and knocked for admittance, which was at once given. Lindsay, one 
of the. expected guests at the family meal of the day, commanded this party, 
who instantly shot Mac Ian dead by his own bed-side, as he was in the act 
of dressing himself, and giving orders for refreshments to be provided for 
his fatal visitors. His aged wife was stripped by the savage soldiery, who, 
at the same time, drew off the gold rings from her fingers with their teeth. 
She died the next day, distracted with grief, and the brutal treatment she 
had received. Several domestics and clansmen were killed at the same 
place. 

The two sons of the aged chieftain had not been altogether so confident 
as their father respecting the peaceful and friendly purpose of their guests. 
They observed, on the evening preceding the massacre, that the sentinels 
were doubled, and the mainguard strengthened. John, the elder brother, 
had even overheard the soldiers muttering amongst themselves, that they 
cared not about fighting the men of the glen fairly, but did not like the 
nature of the service they were engaged in ; while others consoled themselves 
with the military logic, that their officers must be answerable for the orders 
given, they having no choice save to obey them. Alarmed with what had 
been thus observed and heard, the young men hastened to Glenlyon's 
quarters, where they found that officer and his men preparing their arms. 
On questioning him about these suspicious appearances, Glenlyon accounted 
for them by a story that he was bound on an expedition against some of 
Glengarry's men; and alluding to the circumstance of their alliance, which 
made his own cruelty more detestable, he added, "If anything evil had been 
intended, would I not have told Alaster and my niece?" 

Re-assured by this communication, the young men retired to rest, but 
were speedily awakened by an old domestic, who called on the two brothers 
to rise and fly for their lives. " Is it time for you," he said, "to be sleeping, 
when your father is murdered on his own hearth?" Thus roused, they 
hurried out in great terror, and heard throughout the glen, wherever there 
was a place of human habitation, the shouts of the murderers, the reports of 
the muskets, the screams of the wounded, and the groans of the dying. By 
their perfect knowledge of the scarce accessible cliffs amongst which they 
dwelt, they were enabled to escape observation, and fled to the southern 
access of the glen. 

Meantime, the work of death proceeded with as little remorse as Stair 
himself could have desired. Even the slight mitigation of their orders 
respecting those above seventy years, was disregarded by the soldiery in 
their indiscriminate thirst for blood, and several very aged and bedridden 
persons were slain amongst others. At the hamlet where Glenlyon had his 
own quarters, nine men, including his landlord, were bound and shot like 
felons ; and one of them, Mac Donald of Auchintriaten, had General Hill's 
passport in his pocket at the time. A fine lad of twenty had, by some 
glimpse of compassion on the part of the soldiers, been spared, when one 
Captain Drummond came up, and demanding why the orders were trans- 



NOTES TO GLENCOE. 329 

gressed in that particular, caused him instantly to be put to death. A boy, 
of five or six years old, clung to Glenlyon' s knees, entreating for mercy, and 
offering to become his servant for life, if he would spare him. Glenlyon was 
moved ; but the same Drummond stabbed the child with his dirk, while he 
was in this agony of supplication. 

At a place called Auchnaion, one Barber, a sergeant, with a party of 
soldiers, fired on a group of nine Mac Donalds, as they were assembled 
round their morning fire, and killed four of them. The owner of the house, 
a brother of the slain Auchintriaten, escaped unhurt, and expressed a wish 
to be put to death rather in the open air than within the house. " For your 
bread which I have eaten," answered Barber, " I will grant the request." 
Mac Donald was dragged to the door accordingly ; but he was an active 
man, and when the soldiers were presenting their firelocks to shoot him. he 
cast his plaid over their faces, and taking advantage of the confusion, broke 
from them^ and escaped up the glen. 

The alarm being now general, many other persons, male and female, 
attempted their escape in the same manner as the two sons of Mac Ian and 
the person last mentioned. Flying from their burning huts, and from their 
murderous visitors, the half-naked fugitives committed themselves to a 
winter morning of darkness, snow, and storm, amidst a wilderness tbe most 
savage in the West Highlands, having a bloody death behind them, and 
before them tempest, famine, and desolation. Bewildered in the snow- 
wreaths, several sunk to rise no more. But the severities of the storm were 
tender mercies compared to the cruelty of their persecutors. The great fall 
of snow, which proved fatal to several of the fugitives, was the means of 
saving the remnant that escaped. Major Duncanson, agreeably to the plan 
expressed in his orders to Glenlyon, had not failed to put himself in motion, 
with four hundred men, on the evening preceding the slaughter; and, had 
he reached the eastern passes out of Glencoe by four in the morning, as he 
calculated, he must have intercepted and destroyed all those who took that 
only way of escape from Glenlyon and his followers. But as this reinforce- 
ment arrived so late as eleven in the forenoon, they found no Mac Donald 
alive in Glencoe, save an old man of eighty, whom they slew ; and after 
burning such houses as were yet unconsumed, they collected the property of 
the tribe, consisting of twelve hundred head of cattle and horses, besides 
goats and sheep, and drove them off to the garrison of Fort William. 

Thus ended this horrible deed of massacre. The number of persons 
murdered was thirty-eight; those who escaped might amount to a hundred 
and fifty males, who, with the women and children of the tribe, had to fly 
more than twelve miles through rocks and wildernesses ere they could reach 
any place of safety or shelter. 

Page 304. 

" Stoutly have I fought 
Upon King James's side ; but with Dundee 
His cause expired." 

" Dundee himself," says Sir Walter Scott, " contrary to the advice of the 
Highland chiefs, was in the front of the battle, and fatally conspicuous. 
Observing the stand made by two English regiments, he galloped towards 



330 NOTES TO GLENCOE. 

the clan of Macdonald, and was in the act of bringing them to the charge, 
with his right arm elevated, as if pointing the way to victory, when he was 
struck by a bullet beneath the armpit, where he was unprotected by the 
cuirass. He tried to ride on, but being unable to keep the saddle, fell 
mortally wounded, and died in the course of that night. Such was the 
general opinion of his talents and courage, and the general sense of the 
peculiar crisis at -which his death took place, that the common people of 
the low country cannot even now be persuaded that he died an ordinary 
death. They say that a servant of his own, shocked at the severities which, 
if triumphant, his master was likely to accomplish against the Presbyterians, 
and giving way to the popular prejudice of his having a charm against the 
effect of leaden balls, shot him in the tumult of the battle with a silver 
button taken from his livery coat. The Jacobites and Episcopalian party, 
on the other hand, lamented the deceased victor as the last of the Scots, the 
last of the Grahams, and the last of all that was great in his native 
country." — Tales of a Grandfather, chap. 56. 



MINOR POEMS. 



SONNETS. 



EVENING SERVICE. 

PERFORMED BY DE. VALPY AT READING SCHOOL. 



There is a holy magic in that tone, 

Can wake from memory's selectest cell 

The hour when first upon my heart it fell 

Like dew from Heaven : — the years that since have flown 

Seem airy dreams ; — yet not of self alone 

Those sacred strains are eloquent ; — they tell 

Of numbers temper 'd by their simple spell 

In boyhood's unreflecting prime to own 

Their kindred with their fellows — best of lore ! — 

Who to this spot, as Persians to the East, 

Turn reverential thoughts from every shore 

Which holds them ; nor forbear, till life has ceased, 

With child-like love, a blessing to implore 

On thee, great charity's unspotted priest ! 



334 SONNETS. 



THE FORBURY, AT READING. 
VISITED ON A MISTY EVENING- IN AUTUMN. 

Soft uplands, that in boyhood's earliest days 
Seem'd mountain-like and distant, fain once more 
Would I behold you ! but the autumn hoar 
Hath veil'd your pensive groves in evening haze ; 
Yet must I wait till on my searching gaze 
Your outline lives — more dear than if ye wore 
An April sunsets consecrating rays — 
For, even thus, the images of yore 
Which ye awaken glide from misty years 
Dream-like and solemn, and but half unfold 
Their tale of glorious hopes, religious fears, 
And visionary schemes of giant mould ; 
Whose dimmest trace the world-worn heart reveres, 
And, with love's grasping weakness, strives to hold. 



SONNETS. 335 



ON" HEARING THE SHOUTS OF THE PEOPLE AT THE READING 
ELECTION IN THE SUMMER OF 1826, AT A DISTANCE. 

Hakk ! from the distant town the long acclaim 

On the charm'd silence of the evening breaks 

With startling interruption ; — yet it wakes 

Thought of that voice of never-dying fame 

Which on my boyish meditation came 

Here, at an hour like this ; — my soul partakes 

A moment's gloom, that yon fierce contest slakes 

Its thirst of high emprise and glorious aim : 

Yet wherefore ? Feelings that from heaven are shed 

Into our tenements of flesh, ally 

Themselves to earthly passions, lest, unfed 

By warmth of human sympathies, they die ; 

And shall — earths fondest aspirations dead — 

Fulfil their first and noblest prophecy. 



SONNETS. 



VIEW OF THE VALLEY OF EEADING. 

FROM TILEHUEST, AT THE CLOSE OF THE SAME ELECTION. 

Too long have I regarded thee, fair vale, 

But as a scene of struggle which denies 

All pensive joy; and now with childhood's eyes 

In old tranquillity, I bid thee hail ; 

And welcome to my soul thy own sweet gale, 

Which wakes from loveliest woods the melodies 

Of long-lost fancy — Never may there fail 

Within thy circlet, spirits born to rise 

In honour — whether won by freedom rude 

In her old Spartan majesty, or wrought 

With partial, yet no base regard, to brood 

O'er usages by time with sweetness fraught; 

Be thou their glory-tinted solitude, 

The cradle and the home of generous thought ! 



SONNETS. 337 



TO THE THAMES AT WESTMINSTER. 

IN RECOLLECTION OF THE BANKS OF THE SAME RIVER, AT CAYERSHAM, 
NEAR READING. 

With no cold admiration do I gaze 
Upon thy pomp of waters, matchless stream ! 
But home-sick fancy kindles with the beam 
That on thy lucid bosom faintly plays ; 
And glides delighted through thy crystal ways, 
Till on her eye those wave-fed poplars gleam, 
Beneath whose shade her first ethereal maze 
She fashion'd ; where she traced in clearest dream 
Thy mirror'd course of wood-enshrined repose 
Besprent with island haunts of spirits bright ; 
And widening on — till, at the vision's close, 
Great London, only then a name of might 
For childish thought to build on, proudly rose 
A rock-throned city clad in heavenly light. 



SONNETS. 



VI. 
TO THE SAME RIVER. 



I may not emulate their lofty aim, 
Who, in divine imagination, bold, 
With mighty hills and streams communion hold, 
As living friends ; and scarce I dare to claim 
Acquaintance with thee in thy scenes of fame, 
Wealthiest of rivers, though in days of old 
I loved thee where thy waters sylvan roll'd, 
And still would deem thee in thy pride the same ! 
So love perversely cleaves to some old mate 
Estranged by fortune ; in his very pride 
Seems lifted ; waxes in his greatness great ; 
And silent hails the lot it prophesied, — 
Content to think in manhood's palmy state 
Some lingering traces of the child abide. 



SONNETS. 



TO MR. MACREADY, 

ON HIS PEEFOEHANCE OF WEENEB, IN LOED BYBON'S TEAGEDY 
OF THAT NAME. 



leakned in affection's thousand ways ! 

1 thought thy art had proved its happiest power, 
When thou didst bend above the opening flower 
Of sweet Virginia's beauty, and with praise 
Measured in words but fineless in the gaze 

Of the proud sire, her gentle secret won : 
Or when the patriot archers hardy son 
Was school'd by doting sternness for the hour 
Of glorious peril ; but the just designs 
Were ready ; now thy soul's affections glow, 
By thy own genius train'd, through frigid lines, 
And make a scorner's bloodless fancy show, 
When love disdain'd round its cold idol twines, 
How mighty are its weakness and its woe ! 



z2 



340 SONNETS. 



VIII. 
FAME — THE SYMBOL AND PROOF OF IMMORTALITY. 

The names that slow oblivion have defied, 
And passionate ambition's wildest shocks 
Stand in lone grandeur, like eternal rocks, 
To cast broad shadows o'er the silent 'tide 
Of time's unebbing flood, whose waters glide, 
To ponderous darkness from their secret spring, 
And, bearing on each transitory thing, 
Leave those old monuments in loneliest pride. 
There stand they — fortresses uprear'd by man, 
Whose earthly frame is mortal ; symbols high 
Of power unchanging, — thought that cannot die 
Proofs that our nature mocks its earthly span, 
And claims an essence by its God allied 
To life and joy and love unperishing. 



SONNETS. 341 



TO MR. MACREADY, 

ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD ; IN RECOLLECTION OF HIS 
PERFORMANCE OF VIRGINIUS. 



There is no father, who, with swimming eyes, 

Has seen thee present life and passion lend 

To scenes by simple-hearted poet penn'd, 

Depicting household love in Roman guise, 

Which, breathed through ancient forms, in freshness vies 

With love of yesterday, who does not send 

A greeting to thee as a new-bless'd friend, 

Now thy own heart acknowledges the ties 

Which skill, forestalling nature, made thee guess 

With finest apprehension, and commend 

To tearful crowds ; — yet while the sweet excess 

Of joy that thou hast passion'd forth, shall fill 

Thy soul with all it dream'd of happiness, 

May grief remain the artist's fiction still ! 



342 SONNETS. 



TO CHAELES DICKENS, 
ON HIS " OLIVER TWIST." 



Not only with the author's happiest praise 

Thy work should be rewarded ; 'tis akin 

To deeds of men, who, scorning ease to win 

A blessing for the wretched, pierce the maze 

Which heedless ages spread around the ways 

Where fruitful Sorrow tracks its parent Sin ; 

Content to listen to the wildest din 

Of passion, and on dismal shapes to gaze, 

So they may earn the power which intercedes 

With the bright world and melts it ; for within 

Wan childhood's squalid haunts, where basest needs 

Make tyranny more bitter, at thy call, 

An angel face with patient sweetness pleads 

For infant suffering to the heart of all. 



SONNETS. 343 



TO MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE, 

ON HEE APPROACHING RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE. 
(DECEMBER, 1842.) 



If Time has doom'd the triumphs of thy race 
With loss of thee — the youngest and the last — 
To take majestic station in the Past, 
We thank thee that thy fleeting hours embrace 
Some hint of all its glories ; — bid us trace 
In thy proud action the unconquer'd will 
Of the great Koman ; own once more a thrill 
Akin to that which blanch'd the childish face 
At Siddons' whisper ; bless the honest grace 
Which the true heart of chivalry should still 
Shed o'er thy father's brow; — consoled that all, 
Thus waning into memory, grow more sweet, 
And make their last expressions musical, 
To live while any heart they hush shall beat. 



SONNETS. 



ON THE RECEPTION OF THE POET WORDS'WORTH AT 
OXFORD (1839). 



Nevek till now did mighty truth prevail 
With such felicities of place and time, 
As in those shouts sent forth with joy sublime 
From the full heart of England's Youth, to hail 
Her once neglected bard, within the pale 
Of Learning's fairest Citadel ! That voice, 
In which the Future thunders bids rejoice 
Some who through wintry fortunes did not fail 
To bless with love as deep as life, the name 
Thus welcomed ; — who, in happy silence, share 
The triumph ; while their fondest musings claim 
Unhoped-for echoes in the joyous air, 
That to their long-loved Poet's spirit bear 
A Nation's promise of undying fame. 



SONNETS. 345 



XIII. 

THE MEMORY OF THE POETS. 

The fame of those pure bards whose fancies lie 
Like glorious clouds in summer's calmest even, 
Fringing the western skirts of darkening heaven, 
And sprinkled o'er with hues of rainbow dye, 
Awakes no voice of thunder, which may vie 
With mighty chiefs' renown ; — from ages gone, 
In low undying strain, it lengthens on, 
The wildest solitudes with joy to fill, — 
Felt breathing in the silence of the sky, 
Or trembling in the gush of new-born rill, 
Or whispering o'er the lake's unrippled breast ; 
x\nd, when all mortal voices shall be still, 
Preserved to mingle earth-born ecstacy 
With the calm rapture of eternal rest. 



346 SONNETS. 



XIV. 

ETON COLLEGE. 
SURVEYED AFTER LEAVING- A SON AT SCHOOL FOE THE FIRST TIME. 

How often have I fix'd a stranger's gaze 
On yon famed turrets, clad in light as fair 
As this sweet evening lends, and felt the air 
Of learning that from calm of ancient days 
Breathes round them ever ! Now to me they wear 
Hues drawn from dearer thought ; the radiant haze 
That mantles them grows thick with fondest care, 
And its slant sunbeams flicker like the praise 
Youth wins from wisdom ; — for in yon retreats 
One little student's heart expectant beats 
With blood of mine ; — God ! vouchsafe him power. 
When I am dust, to stand on this sweet place, 
And, through the vista of long years, embrace 
With cloudless soul this first Etonian hour ! 



SONNETS. 347 



TO LORD DENMAN. 
RESIGNING THE OFFICE OF LORD CHIEF JUSTICE OF ENGLAND. 

There is a rapture in the great All Hail 

With which a nation honours thy repose, 

That proves thy image deathless — that the close 

Of man's remotest age, whose boyhood glows 

While pondering o'er thy lineaments, shall fail 

To delegate to cold historic tale 

What Denman was ; for dignity that flows 

Not in the moulds of compliment extern, 

But from the noble spirit's purest urn, 

Springs vital ; justice shrined from wintry flaw 

By beautiful regards, and thoughts that burn 

With generous ire, within the soul shall draw 

No form but thine, when distant times would learn 

The embodied majesty of England's Law. 



348 SONNETS. 



TO A LADY 
VISITING CHAHOUNI, FOE THE FIRST TIME, FROM GENEVA. 

May Nature's stateliest palace to your gaze 

Expand in happiest lustre ! May the sun 

Light into radiant joy the streams that run 

Aslant the herbage of the rock-bound ways 

Down which the strong Arve thunders ; may his ray: 

Spread myriad colours o'er the fount that springs 

Aloft in watery dust, and leaping flings 

A shadow scarce less earthly ! May no cloud 

At eve on Europe's stainless summit rest 

When roseate beauty lingering should attest 

Its lone supremacy, which noon will fail 

To vindicate, — or hint of cares to shroud 

In after time that mirror in the breast 

Which shall reflect the Mountain and the Vale ! 



SONNETS. 349 



XVII. 
THE WESTMINSTER PLAT. 



Not from the youth-illumined stage alone 
Is gladness shed ; it breathes around from all 
Whose names imprinted on each honour'd wall 
Speak deathless boyhood ; on whose hearts the tone 
That makes a classic phrase familiar grown 
New by its crisp expression, seem to fall 
From distant years ; while shouting striplings, still 
On life's gay verge, make younger bosoms thrill 
With proud delight which lately charm'd their own ; 
While richest humour strangely serves to fill 
Worn eyes with child-like tears ; for memory lifts 
Time's curtain from the soul's remotest stage, 
And sympathy makes strangers share the gifts 
That clasp in golden meshes youth and age. 



350 SONNETS. 



XVIH. 
ON LOUGH'S STATUE OF LADY MACBETH.' 

If this great image were by ocean thrown 

Among some people who have never yet 

Learn'd in the mind's creations to forget 

Life's pressure, and the melancholy stone 

Were on a rock for savage wonder set, 

Methinks some sense of Shakspeare's world unknown 

Would dawn on spirits reverential grown 

To strange divinity, as if they met 

A bodied fragment of the poet's soul ; — 

And while the spectral gaze and withering hand 

Urge silence, such as that which death's control 

Rules, — on the thoughts of that astonish'd band 

Shapes from the noblest scenes by mortal plann'd 

Would rise, and breathe the grandeur of the whole. 



SONNETS. 351 



KE.COLLECTION OE THE LATE SIR M. A. SHEE, 

PRESIDING FOR THE LAST TIME AT THE FESTIVAL OF THE ROYAL 
ACADEMY. 



If in the fluttering music of that tongue 

Some trace of years, through which its accents grew 

Sweet amidst forms of beauty, should renew 

An old regret that spirits ever young 

Must, as they verge on regions whence they sprung, 

Pay in expression's weaken'd force the due 

To frail mortality by which alone 

They speak to earth, our hearts attend its tone 

With eagerness more rapt than when it flung 

Abroad the vigorous truth by fancy's hue 

Imbued — for, as the seeds from o'erblown flowers, 

By autumn's gentle breath for spring are sown, 

These trembling words, embraced by kindred powers, 

Shall glow in pictures distant times shall own. 



SONNETS. 



TO ROBERT BROWNING. 

SUGGESTED BY A SUNSET OF UNUSUAL BEAUT V. 



A mighty sorrow gathers while the eye 

Is b} r the sunset's waning glories fed, 

For they recal the forms of poets dead, 

Who with the first of mighty ages vie, 

And lately veil'd by earth's horizon, shed 

Sad beauty from beneath it ; — yet a power, 

Like the pale moon that to their lustrous hour 

Gave the meek tribute of a young ally 

Felt more than own'd, consoling light should shower 

From crystal urn that holds the precious dower 

Of Browning's genius — which, when breezes rend 

Fond clouds its lavish splendours glorify, 

Made free of azure fields, its course shall wend 

To high dominion in serenest sky. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AT THE NEEDLES HOTEL, ALUM BAY, ISLE OF WIGHT, 
AFTER A WEEK SPENT AT THAT PLACE. 



How simple in their grandeur are the forms 

That constitute this picture ! Nature grants 

Scarce more than sternest cynic might desire — 

Earth, Sea, and Sky, and hardly lends to each 

Variety of colour ; yet the soul 

Asks nothing fairer than the scene it grasps 

And makes its own for ever ! From the gate 

Of this home-breathing Inn, which nestling cleaves 

To its own shelf among the downs, begirt 

With trees which lift no branches to defy 

The fury of the storm, but crouch in love 

Round the low 7 snow-white walls whence they receive 

More shelter than they lend, — the heart-sooth'd guest 

Views a furze-dotted common, on each side 

Wreathed into waving eminences, clothed 

Above the furze with scanty green, in front 

Indented sharply to admit the sea, 

Spread thence in softest blue — to which a gorge 

Sinking within the valley's deepening green 

Invites by grassy path ; the Eastern down 

Swelling with pride into the waters, shows 

Its sward-tipp'd precipice of radiant white, 



354 ALUM BAY. 

And claims the dazzling peak beneath its brow 

Part of its ancient bulk, which hints the strength 

Of those famed pinnacles that still withstand 

The conquering waves, as fortresses maintain'd 

By death-devoted troops, hold out awhile 

After the game is lost, to grace for ever 

The virtue of the conquer'd. — Here are scarce 

Four colours for the painter ; vet the charm 

Which permanence, 'mid earthly change, confers 

Is felt, if ever, here ; for he who loves 

To bid the scene refresh his inward eye 

When far away, may feel it keeping still 

The very aspect that it wore for him, 

Scarce changed by time or season : autumn finds 

Scant boughs on which the lustre of decay 

May tremble fondly ; storms may rage in vain 

Above the clumps of sturdy furze, which stand 

The forest of the fairies ; twilight grey 

Finds in the landscape's stem and simple forms 

Nought to conceal ; the moon, although she casts 

Upon the element she sways, a track 

Like that which slanted through young Jacob's sleep 

From heaven to earth, and flutter'd at the soul 

Of shadow's mighty painter, who thence drew 

Hints of a glory beyond shape, reveals 

The clear-cut frame work of the sea and downs 

Shelving to gloom, as unperplex'd with threads 

Of pallid light, as when the summer's noon 

Bathes them in sunshine; and the giant cliffs 

Scarce veiling more their lines of flint that run 

Like veins of moveless blue through glistening white, 

In moonlight than in day, shall tower as now, 



ALUM BAY. 355 

( Save when some moss's slender stain shall break 
Into the samphire's yellow in mid air, 
To tempt some trembling life) until the eyes 
Which gaze in childhood on them shall be dim. 

Yet deem not that these sober forms are all 
That Nature here provides, although she frames 
These in one lasting picture for the heart. 
Within the foldings of the coast she breathes 
Hues of fantastic beauty. Thread the gorge 
And, turning on the beach, while the low sea 
Spread out in mirror'd gentleness, allows 
A path along the curving edge, behold 
Such dazzling glory of prismatic tints 
Flung o'er the lofty crescent, as assures 
The orient gardens where Aladdin pluck'd 
His jewell'd fruit no fable, — as if earth, 
Provoked to emulate the rainbow's pomp 
In lasting mould, had snatch'd its floating hues 
And fix'd them here ; for never o'er the bay 
Flew a celestial arch of brighter grace 
Than the gay coast exhibits ; here the cliff 
Flaunts in a brighter yellow than the stream 
Of Tiber wafted ; then through softer shades 
Declines to pearly white, which blushes soon 
With pink as delicate as autumn's rose 
Wears on its scattering leaves ; anon the shore 
Recedes into a fane-like dell, where stain 'd 
With black, as if with sable tapestry hung, 
Light pinnacles rise taper : further yet 
Swells out in solemn mass a dusky veil 
Of purpled crimson, — while bright streaks of red 
Start out in gleam-like tint, to tell of veins 



356 ALUM BAY. 

Which the slow-winning sea, in distant times, 
Shall bare to unborn gazers. 

If this scene 
Grow too fantastic for thy pensive thought, 
Climb either swelling down, and gaze with joy 
On the blue ocean, pour'd around the heights, 
As it embraced the wonders of that shield 
Which the doom'd friend of slain Patroclus wore, 
To grace his fated valour ; nor disdain 
The quiet of the vale, though not endow'd 
With such luxurious beauty as the coast 
Of Undercliff embosoms. 'Mid those lines 
Of scanty foliage, thoughtful lanes and paths, 
And cottage roofs, find shelter ; the blue stream, 
That with its brightness almost threads the isle, 
Flows blest with two grey towers, beneath whose shade 
The village life sleeps trustfully, — whose rites 
Touch the old weather-harden'd fisher's heart 
With child-like softness, and shall teach the boy 
Who kneels, a sturdy grandson, at his side, 
When his frail boat amidst the breakers strikes, 
To cast the anchor of a Christian's hope 
In an unrippled haven. Then rejoice, 
That in remotest point of this sweet isle, 
Which with fond mimicry combines each shape 
Of the great land that, by the ancient bond 
(Sea-parted once, and sea-united now), 
Binds her in unity — a Spirit breathes 
On cliff, and tower, and valley, by the side 
Of cottage-fire, and the low grass-grown grave, 
Of Home on English earth, and Home in Heaven ! 



VERSES 

TO THE MEMORY OF A CHILD, WHO, NAMED AFTER CHARLES LAMB, DIED 
A YEAR AFTER HIM, AT BRIGHTON. 



Oue gentle Charles has pass'd away 
From earths short bondage free, 

And left to us its leaden day 
And mist-enshrouded sea. 

Here, by the ocean's terraced side, 
Sweet hours of hope were known, 

When first the triumph of its tide 
Seem'd omen of our own. 

That eager joy the sea-breeze gave, 

When first it raised his hair, 
Sunk with each day's retiring wave, 

Beyond the reach of prayer. 

The sun-blink that through drizzling mist, 

To flickering hope akin, 
Lone waves with feeble fondness kiss'd, 

No smile as faint can win ; 



358 MEMORIAL VEESES. 

Yet not in vain with radiance weak 
The heavenly stranger gleams — 

Not of the world it lights to speak, 
But that from whence it streams. 

That world our patient sufferer sought, 

Serene with pitying eyes, 
As if his mounting spirit caught 

The wisdom of the skies. 

With boundless love it look'd abroad 
For one bright moment given, 

Shone with a loveliness that awed, 
And quiver'd into Heaven. 

A year made slow by care and toil 
Has paced its weary round, 

Since death enrich'd with kindred spoil 
The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground. 

Then Lamb, with whose endearing name 
Our boy we proudly graced, 

Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame 
Than ever bard embraced. 

Still 'twas a mournful joy to think 

Our darling might supply, 
For years to us, a living link 

With name that cannot die. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 359 

And though such fancy gleam no more 

On earthly sorrow's night, 
Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore 

Which lends to both its light. 

The nurseling there that hand may take 

None ever grasp 'd in vain, 
And smiles of well-known sweetness wake, 

Without their tinge of pain. 

Though, 'twixt the child and childlike bard 

Late seem'd distinction wide, 
They now may trace, in Heaven's regard, 

How near they were allied. 

Within the infant's ample brow 

Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd, 
W T hich all uncrush'd may open now 

To charm a sinless world. 

Though the soft spirit of those eyes 
Might ne'er with Lamb's compete — 

Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise, 
Or melt in tears, as sweet, 

The nurseling's unforgotten look 

A kindred love reveals, 
With his who never friend forsook, 

Or hurt a thing that feels. 



MEMORIAL VERSES. 

In thought profound, in wildest glee, 
In sorrow's lengthening range, 

His guileless soul of infancy 
Endured no spot or change. 

From traits of each our love receives 

For comfort nobler scope ; 
While light which childlike genius leaves 

Confirms the infant's hope : 

And in that hope with sweetness fraught 

Be aching hearts beguiled, 
To blend in one delightful thought 

The Poet and the Child. 



APPENDIX. 



NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY, 

PREFIXED INSTEAD OF DEDICATION TO THE FIEST PUBLISHED 
EDITION OF ION. 



In offering this attempt at dramatic composition to the 
public at large, I am mournfully reminded of an irreparable 
loss by the necessity of omitting a Dedication to one whose 
name should have graced its opening page. The two Editions 
which have been privately circulated were inscribed to my 
venerable and indulgent friend, Dr. Valpt, upon whose long 
life of kindness Death has since set the final seal. When I 
ventured to claim for it his protection, I well knew that I 
might rely upon that charity which lavished its bounties upon 
every effort of his pupils, for tenderness to its faults, and for 
generous praise of any merits which the keenest eye of friend- 
ship might detect or create. There was also a propriety in 
seeking this association for a work which was prompted by 
love of those remains of antique beauty which he had taught 
me to know and to revere ; which assumed that form of poetry 
in which he had chiefly delighted ; and which, although medi- 
tated in broken hours, and at long intervals, had always 
mingled with the recollections of those happy days, when he 
first awakened within me the sense of classical grace, and of 
those after-seasons, when the exquisite representations of Greek 



3<34 NOTICE OF THE LATE DR.VALPY. 

Tragedy, which he superintended, made its images vital. He is 
gone to his rest full of years and honours ; and I cannot receive 
from him that sanction which he cordially gave me when I 
presented this drama to my friends, now that I submit it to the 
judgment of a wider and more impartial circle. Death, which 
harmonises the pictures of human character, found little in Ms 
to spiritualise or to soften ; but if it has not enhanced the 
feeling of his excellences in the minds of those who felt 
their influence, it has enabled them to express that feeling 
without the semblance of flattery. It has left them free not 
only to expatiate on those well-directed labours which have 
facilitated the access of the young to the elements of sound 
learning; on the solemn and persuasive tone of his pulpit 
eloquence ; on the steadiness of his attachment to principles 
adopted with caution, expressed with moderation, yet maintained 
without a sigh at the cost of the emoluments and honours to 
which they were obstacles ; but also to revert to that remarkable 
kindness of disposition which was the secret but active law of 
his moral being. His nature was not ameliorated nor even 
characterised, but wholly moulded of Christian love to an 
entireness of which there are few examples. He had no sense 
of injury, but as something to be forgiven. The liberal allow- 
ance which he extended to all human frailties grew more active 
when they affected his own interests, and interfered with his own 
hopes ; so that, however he might reprobate evil at a distance, 
as soon as it came within his sphere he desired only to overcome 
it by good. Envy, hatred, and malice, were to him mere names, 
like the figures of a speech in a schoolboy's theme, or the giants 
in a fairy tale — phantoms which scarcely touched him with a 
transient sense of reality. His guileless simplicity of heart was 
not preserved in learned seclusion, or by a constant watchful- 
ness over the development of youthful powers, (for he found 
time to mingle frequently in the blameless gaieties and the stirring 



NOTICE OF THE LATE DK.VALPY. 365 

business of life,) but by the happy constitution of his own 
nature, which passion could rarely disturb, and evil had no 
power to stain. His system of education was animated by a 
portion of his own spirit : it was framed to enkindle and to 
quicken the best affections, and to render emulation itself 
subservient to the generous friendships which it promoted. His 
charity in its comprehensiveness, resembled nothing less than the 
imagination of the greatest of our poets, embracing everything 
human; shedding its light upon the just and the unjust; 
detecting " the soul of goodness in things evil ; " stealing 
rigidity from virtue ; bringing into gentle relief those truths 
which are of aspect the most benign, and those suggestions and 
hopes which are most full of consolation ; and attaching itself, in 
all the various departments of life, to individuals whose childhood 
it had fostered ; in whose merits its own images were multiplied, 
or whose errors and sorrows supplied the materials of its most 
quick and genial action. The hold which the Reading school -boy 
had upon this charity could not be forfeited, even "by slights, the 
worst of injuries ; " and when broken in fortune, deserted by 
relatives, and frowned on by the world, he had only to seek the 
hospitable roof of his old master — " claim kindred there, and 
have his claims allow'd." By the spirit of cordiality which 
breathed there, all party differences were melted away, or, if 
perceived at all, served only to render tolerance more vivid ; and 
men of all opinions and all ranks met under his auspices, at the 
annual School-meetings, to enjoy the happiest hours of the 
year, now the dearest to memory. 

The completion of the fiftieth year of Doctor Valpy's Mastership 
of Reading School, which he was about to resign into the hands 
of his youngest son, afforded an opportunity to his pupils of 
embodying their sentiments of grateful affection in a substantial 
form which could not be lost. A splendid service of plate had, 
many years before, been presented to the lovely and excellent 



366 NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY. 

wife of whom death, had long deprived him ; and the precedent 
was now followed, under still more affecting circumstances, in 
honour of the survivor. The subscription, limited to a guinea, 
had been filled by more than two hundred and fifty of his old 
scholars ; and long after the completion of their purpose, other 
subscriptions arrived from distant parts of the world, which the 
intelligence had reached, too late to enable the subscribers to 
express their wish in time to share in the gift before it was 
presented. The central piece of plate — a beautiful copy of the 
most beautiful of all vases, " the Warwick," bore the following 
inscription : — To the Rev. Richard Valpy, D.D., who for the long 
space of Fifty Tears presided over Reading School, distinguished 
for his piety and learning, this testimony of respect and affection 
was presented by his grateful Scholars, on the l§th October, 1830. 
The time fixed for the presentation was the close of one of 
those Triennial Visitations of the school, which had been so 
often illustrated by a representation of Greek Tragedy, un- 
rivalled for correctness of costume, sweetness of enunciation, 
and graceful simplicity of action ; but which was now to be 
marked by a reality of interest more deep, and to be followed 
by recollections yet more sacred. Mr. Baron Bolland had been 
selected by the Committee managing the subscription, to present 
the Testimonial, and most readily acquiesced in their wishes, 
but was detained by domestic circumstances in a distant part 
of the country; and, having cherished to the last possible 
moment the hope of performing his delightful duty, was obliged 
to resign it. Under these circumstances, I was so fortunate as 
to be requested to supply his place, and to be honoured by the 
opportunity of feebly expressing sentiments every one present 
knew to be the simple truth. The School-Boom, which Dr. 
Valpy had erected out of his own funds, was the scene of the 
breakfast and presentation, at which nearly two hundred persons 
were seated, exclusive of the real school-boys, who occupied 



NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY. 367 

their own desks lining the room. The plate was exhibited on 
the desk at which the Master had presided for the last half 
century ; and as soon as the company had assembled, was pre- 
sented to Dr. Valpy in the following Address, which, with the 
Eeply, I copy from the Reading Newspapers of the following 
Saturday. 

"In the absence of your distinguished Scholar, who should 
have been the organ of our sentiments to-day, but who has been 
detained in a distant part of the country, I have been suddenly 
called to the high and unmerited honour of representing that 
large body of your pupils who now offer to you this little token 
of their affection and gratitude. In this pleasure there are more 
than 250 sharers — men scattered through different parts of this 
and other countries, but all acknowledging one home of their 
early hopes, loves, and joys, to which their thoughts have often 
delightedly reverted, and to which they have themselves been 
ever welcomed with boundless hospitality and unfailing kind- 
ness ; — men of ages varying through a large portion of human 
life, yet all alike young in the vivid perception of the happy 
days they spent under your care ; — men of far different avoca- 
tions and degrees of this world's wealth and esteem, but all 
equal in that great treasure of imperishable recollection, over 
which its changes have no power, and in those principles of 
integrity and honour which have been instilled into them here ; 
— of opinions various as those of freemen will become in a free 
country, on the greatest subjects of inquiry, but all animated 
by one sentiment of regard for the institution in which they 
were fostered, and for him who has raised and adorned it 
through fifty years. In your kind and partial eyes — ever used 
to look indulgently on our imperfect performances — this gift, 
we well know, will not be esteemed lightly ; but we offer it 
with an almost painful sense how inadequate it is to betoken 
our feelings towards you, and how powerless are all words to 



368 NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY. 

express them. If in any place we should feel the insufficiency 
of language to convey our thoughts and wishes, how must this 
sense press upon our minds in the place where I have the 
pleasure to address you 1 Here all around has a silent eloquence 
beyond that of words; every old familiar object has a speech 
and a language ; the years long past are rushing by us,— 

' And more than echoes talk along the walls.' 

" Here have your peaceful successes been achieved ; here have 
we shared in the blessings of an education in which learning 
and charity met together ; here have our minds been led along, 
not the straight and barren ' march of intellect,' but its easy 
varied, and delightful journey ; here have we listened (on how 
many Sabbath evenings !) to precepts which the virtues and 
labours of the week exemplified, and which fell upon the hearts 
of joyous and unthinking boyhood in tones fit to awaken its 
first sympathy with human infirmity and sorrow. Here we hail 
and welcome you on the close of fifty years of toils on which 
the seal of time is already set; and we rejoice to believe that 
here that system of instruction, in which the charities of life are 
interwoven, will yet long be vital, as administered by one who 
is endeared to us by a double tie, as our schoolfellow and your 
son ; who has emulated your learning and your fame ; and who, 
we trust, through many years, will here impart to others those 
lessons which he has learned so well, and infuse into our 
children and children's children the principles and feelings 
which he, together with us, has derived from his father ! 

" And now, dear and honoured Master, accept this offering, 
with our earnest wishes and prayers that you may yet long be 
spared to us ! As your season of labour has been protracted 
beyond the usual period in which man is called to work, so may 
your season of repose be long and happy ! Long, very long, 
may you live to enjoy the store of • triumphant recollections 



NOTICE OF THE LATE DR. VALPY. 369 

that your life has gathered ! Long, very long may you live to 
share in our successes and to rejoice in our joy ! Long, very 
long, may you exult in the consciousness that you have done as 
much good, that you have diffused as much happiness, and, 
allow me to add, that you have excited as much veneration and 
love, as any individual of your time ! May God preserve and 
bless you ! " 

Doctor Valpy replied as follows : — 

" Great griefs are silent — so are great joys. There are occa- 
sions on which the remembrance of friends snatched from us 
recurs with fresh bitterness. Some years ago a similar tribute 
was paid to that dear saint in heaven, my lamented wife. If 
ever there was a woman adored by all who knew her, it was 
this object of my affection. I appeal to you, who knew her, 
whether I have overcharged this picture. If spirits have any 
sense of what is passing below, that blessed spirit is now 
hovering over you, whom she loved. I do not know that I can 
prove that spirits of departed friends are sensible of our actions, 
but it is an idea from which I have gained much comfort in 
many a trying hour. I heartily wish those husbands and wives 
who hear me may never feel such a privation, until they reach 
a ripened age. I cannot accept this tribute of your affection 
without sensations such as no language I have ever learned can 
describe. My pilgrimage has been accompanied with many 
thorns, and illumined with some few flowers; but this is the 
fairest flower, that has adorned my path. I cannot say more. 
You say this is a tribute of your gratitude ; but on the present 
occasion the debt of gratitude becomes due, not from you to 
me, but from me to you." 

A few tranquil years passed by Dr. Valpy chiefly in visits to 
the families of his numerous children, closed a life happily 
prolonged to the age of fourscore. 






LONDON : 
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS. WHITEFRIARS. 



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